


The Many Misadventures of a Witcher and his Bard

by ShadowOfHapiness



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowOfHapiness/pseuds/ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: A collection of Geraskier one-shots for Whumptober 2020.Featuring a lot of gratuitous hurt!Geralt, hurt!Jaskier, whump, angst, hurt/comfort and a couple of AUs.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 52
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober 2020 is upon us, and what better way to celebrate than to put one emotionally constipated witcher and his poor bard through a month's worth of pain? I unfortunately missed out on Whumptober last year, but I'm making up for it this time around with a bunch of Geraskier one-shots. The prompts this year are all soo good, so a big thank you to everyone who made this possible.
> 
> Some chapters might be get quite dark and/or feature more triggering things like self-harm, mind control/loss of bodily autonomy or strongly implied non-con, they'll all be tagged in the chapter summary so as to let you know, and you can sit out whatever you don't wish to read. Your well-being is, after all, more important, always be kind to yourselves.
> 
> Likewise, any AUs or AU-inspired will also be noted in the chapter summary so as to not confuse you. There won't be many, but there's a couple.
> 
> If ever you want to chat whump or anything, my whump sideblog on Tumblr is @dwhumpster, because I'm trash for pretty boys suffering.
> 
> Anyway, I think that's all? So if you still want to read, strap in, because I'm slow as fuck to write, my chapters will probably all be 5K minimum because I can't write anything less, and this will likely go far beyond October (there's _no way_ I'm writing 31 one-shots in less than a month at my terrible snail-paced writing. Hell, this might just become a dumping ground for whumpy Geraskier fics because I like to make them suffer, I don't know!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Waking up restrained  
> Day 2: Kidnapped  
> Day 11: Crying  
> Day 13: "Breathe in and out"  
> Day 16: Forced to beg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: this chapter does contain drowning, so if it's a trigger for you, might want to sit this one out.

The foul taste lingering in the back of his mouth – bitter, unpleasant, a hint of something that might have once been sharp, had since soured - brought him to, and try as he might to figure out what it was, exactly, that he must have drank, Jaskier could not for the life of him remember. It must have been some potent liquor, however, to have reduced him to such a state, limbs groggy and head wrapped in cotton, his soul somewhere far away, held in suspense.

If he tried thinking about it – which was no easy feat, for no thought seemed willing to linger more than a couple of seconds – Jaskier faintly remembered an invitation – and a very cordial one, at that – to play, sing and feast at the inn he and Geralt had been staying at, a gracious gift from Lord… What was his name again? Fuck… Oh the incessant buzz in his head was making everything all so confusing, and trying to disentangle one thought from the other left him reeling and feeling slightly nauseous.

Somewhere, distantly, Jaskier knew something wasn’t right, that he ought to have been panicking by now. He should have remembered with far more clarity what had happened last night – was it really _last night,_ however? How long had passed between Geralt and he being there and the bard waking up here… Wherever _here_ was? – or, at the very least, the name of the Lord who had hosted them if nothing else. If he could just wake up-

His eyelids felt heavy, laced with sleep and something _else,_ far more unsettling, for Jaskier doubted very much that they’d returned to the little room Geralt and he had rented at the inn – he would have remembered, surely? His entire body felt heavy, his limbs cold, numb, _lifeless,_ and it hurt, when he tried to move. A dull ache blossomed, like he’d spent an entire day trailing behind Geralt and Roach on the road, or like coming down after another of his countless fights spent defending the Witcher’s honour from those who so easily spat insults at him behind his back.

It was as Jaskier was about to relieve the itch in his arm that something wrong registered with more clarity, for as he went to move his hand, it jerked to a halt, the gesture aborted before he could even bring it to soothe his headache, and unpleasant weight bending his wrist unnaturally – not enough to break them thank Melitele, but certainly enough to cause discomfort. Distantly, he wondered if the damage might get worse the longer he stayed here, like that, and it was as me jerked just slightly that he felt it grate against his skin – the indentation of rust and the cool touch of metal.

_Oh, just lovely, old rusted cuffs, exactly what I needed to wake up to._

Jaskier had a moment to wonder what horrible infection might befall him were he unlucky enough to rub his wrist raw and get blood poisoning or something equally as unfortunate – and, more urgently, he wondered _what the fuck_ had happened for him to end up here, like this. One minute, Geralt and he had been cordially been escorted into the back of the inn, the Lord who he couldn’t remember the name of luring them over with promises of roast turkey, warm bread and the richest melted butter their fine palates could ever hope to taste, and the next thing he knew, everything had turned black, a worrying absence in his mind.

Light had yet to return, Jaskier realized, and as the remains of whatever he’d been drugged with – someone had had to have drugged the food, hadn’t they? Surely, the bard thought, he would not have willingly landed himself in such a dastardly situation otherwise – slowly began to ebb away, tha he felt more acutely whatever it was his generous hosts had decided to tie around his head. A cloth, but the feel of it – and an old, dank and reeking one at that too, threatened to send his stomach churning at any moment now – pulled tight over his eyes.

Probably why Jaskier could not see anything, then, he reasoned.

_Perhaps Geralt could help-_

And, truly, Jaskier would have called out for him, were it not for the gag in his mouth – another piece of dubious-smelling cloth, pulled tight too. Whoever had thought it a good idea to treat him to such poor hospitality had poor manners indeed, it would seem.

His heart skipped a beat, for _where was Geralt?_

Fuck, this could not be good, Jaskier thought, as something shifted to his left. It could not have been too large, for it could not have been more than the sound of something grating on the floor, but with the added rustling of cloth – fine silks by the near imperceptible sound of it, Jaskier thought, he liked to think that his expensive tastes had some use aside from making him look presentable in courts – yet the knowledge did little to quell his panic. There was a difference between _knowing_ something and _seeing_ something, with the latter at least, he would be certain at least that he was not imagining things.

Yet the knowledge that he was no longer alone in his cell did little to quell his unease, and the knowledge that here he sat, so vulnerable and so open to anything they – whoever _they_ were – desired to do to him, sent a tremor down his back. This was decidedly a rather unpleasant experience, Jaskier thought.

“Julian,” A voice, smooth, assured and calculated in its every syllable, and for a moment, Jaskier thought he might have remembered it, for there was just the faintest note of something he’d had the chance to hear before, in the way the man articulated the latter half of his name. That he could not, that the clouded haze still fiercely embracing him still made his recollection all fuzzy around the edges worried him: whatever he’d been given at the inn – and that had had to be hours ago now, surely – had been a calculated move, no doubt. “I _really_ did not want to have to resort to this, but I’m afraid you have left me no choice.”

Something, sudden and unexpected, moved behind him, far too close for comfort and far too loudly to his ears, and Jaskier flinched, hard, made a move to lean forward and escape – _run, damn the fucking blindfold,_ he would have found his way on his hands and knees if he’d had to, had done so many a time in darkened bedrooms before – and would likely have jumped in his chair had he not been tied down so harshly, halting him in his escape and dashing his hope in one breath. He was held in place, however, by the metal cuff around his wrist, chaining him firmly in place, and Jaskier had a moment to curse whoever had done this to him – damn were they a little _too_ good at their job, it would seem.

“Fuck,” He tried to mutter, the sound nothing more than a half-aborted muffled whimper against the gag in his mouth, and Jaskier barely got to move even an inch further before there were hands at his face, holding him still and quickly subduing any fight he might put up. No sooner had he begun to vaguely recollect who the voice might have belonged to that the blindfold around his eyes was ripped off, the brightness of the torch burning dangerously close to his face – threatening to burn half of his left cheek off if he wasn’t careful – blinding him. For a moment, the light stung, hurt his eyes for a moment and the world was a blur of black and faint colour, then Jaskier blinked again, and was graced with none other than one Lord Erdeven himself, and at the sight of him, his stomach dropped.

For it happened to be the same Lord Erdeven who had shown far too much interest in Geralt’s child surprise, one little Cirilla of Cintra.

The same Lord Erdeven who had made no secret of his less than lawful dealings and transactions with clients of the unsavoury kind, clients who hungered for a child of power such as her.

And were he to judge by the fact that they had bound his wrists to a chair, gagged him and offered him less than welcoming accommodations, Jaskier doubted very much that this might be either mere coincidence or the Lord desiring a friendly chat with him. Were he to go by his austere features and his less than amicable disposition, the bard also doubted that he’d be let out of here anytime soon, no matter how kindly he might ask it of him.

At least, not unless Geralt came to rescue him.

Jaskier had grown rather weary of people thinking they could just kidnap and use him to get something out of Geralt merely because they desired so.

 _Fuck, Geralt, where_ was _the Witcher?_ Not that Jaskier had never managed to get himself out of undesirable situations without his help, but having a big scary Witcher by his side had definitely made things a lot easier in recent years, and the arrogant Lord could no doubt have done with a little humility knocked into him right then, it would have at least had the pleasant benefit of wiping the smug smile off his face.

Geralt could probably then have helped untie him and they would have been out of here in a flash, that would have been nice also, but Jaskier was not about to ask for too much.

“I trust you slept well? I must say, I am sorry for the spiked drink. Not the most refined way of doing things, I know, but you see, I simply _had_ to continue our conversation you see.” He said, grand airs and false bonhomie dripping off him, and Jaskier felt ill at the pretence. “You see, you were not exactly forthcoming at my table, bard, which is quite rude, when you are _my_ guest.”

Jaskier, for his part, was not enterly sure that he wished to continue that conversation _at all_. Little Ciri was best kept as far away as possible from the likes of him, men of power who saw nothing more in her than a means to quench their insatiable thirst for more of it, who would all too quickly sell her off to worse monsters than them for the promise of a few gold coins, with little regard or care as to what future they might condemn to the poor girl to.

Jaskier might have had a couple of choice words to share with the Lord – the bard thought there might have been better ways than _kidnapping him_ to prove that his intentions were honest – thanked the gag in his mouth for holding his less than impressed remarks.

“I see,” Lord Erdeven said, shrugging, seemingly not affected by his lack of desire to show himself forthcoming. “I’m afraid I just do not have time for your manners, bard, I see we shall have to get down to business immediately then. But I think it rather rude, for us to continue to discuss such matters without at least having the decency to rouse your cellmate.”

Jaskier had a moment to feel puzzled – he was alone here, wasn’t he? – until Lord Erdeven stepped aside, giving him a full view of the other figure lying on the ground behind him, motionless, one long chain wrapped around his ankle tethering him to the wall and silver hair a dishevelled mess. His heart lurched at the sight of him.

“Geralt!” He said, the sound muffled once again by the cloth in his mouth, his half-aborted cry doing little to rouse his friend, and Jaskier’s earlier worry came back tenfold at the realization. Geralt’s features were lax – unconscious, still, then – and aside from a nasty bruise on his forehead, he seemed to not have fared too ill for now, the relief at the knowledge was a welcomed one, somewhat.

“I take it that you know our mutual acquaintance here, of course.” Lord Erdeven said, drawing it out with a tortuous glee, as he took a step towards the Witcher – slow, deliberately so, every move calculated from the way he held himself to the tone of his voice as he spoke – to Geralt who was blissfully unaware of it all, Geralt who had yet to wake, Geralt who had his hands tied and who looked ever so vulnerable, laid on his side like that, open to any who would seek to do him harm.

Jaskier pulled, and pulled again, yet the metal cuff did not cede, there was nothing he could do.

“It is quite rude of you to make such a ruckus, Jaskier, when your friend here is still trying to sleep.” The Lord said, scolding him as if he were a child, of no consequence – _offensively insulting_ even – before he knelt down by Geralt’s face, traced the bone of his cheek and the shape of his lips with a horribly intimate touch that made the bard’s skin crawl, for the gesture held none of the kindness it ought to have, a pervesion of the genuine care and love Jaskier put into it every morning when they woke up. Nobody ought to have ever been touching Geralt like that, when such foul intentions lay behind a smooth veneer.

 _The audacity of this_ – Jaskier found himself straining against his bonds at the mere sight of it.

“Oh, hit a nerve, have I?” Erdeven said, amused, “Fear not, bardling, I don’t lean that way.”

He snarled – or at least, gave him the best he could with a gag in his mouth – waited with baited breath as, at long last, the man eventually pulled back, pulled out a cloth and bottle from his pocket instead, and gagged instead as the stench of it hit him. “Ah, I’d quite forgotten how potent this is.”

Holding it at a distance, Erdeven held it to Geralt’s face, the unpleasant tang of his potion seeming to rouse him as well as Geralt came to with a jerk and a groan, and Jaskier felt the worry coiling his insides come undone just a little bit with the knowledge that Geralt was all right, in one piece and still alive at least, a little slow, perhaps, for his limbs had yet to recover from the drug he’d been given, but he was quick to pull away from the Lord, eyes darting around their cell instead as it dawned upon hip that they’d tied his hand behind his back while he’d been out cold. Jaskier felt it acutely in his breast, when the realization dawned upon Geralt, for it was in the way his brow pinched just slightly, near imperceptible lines of worry he’d grown all to accustomed to reading upon the Witcher’s face an open book he was well acquaintance with, and he ached for him, when the barest hints of panic seeped through upon the features of his face – Geralt should not have been feeling like this, not ever.

Jaskier wished he could got to him, or call out to him at least – let him have his voice, at least – would have grounded Geralt in a heartbeat and given him something familiar to latch on to, for the blindfold around his eyes did very little to quell the Witcher’s unease.

Jaskier thought, rather cynically, that it might have been a blessing in disguise, that Geralt be spared the unpleasantness of Lord Erdeven’s ugly mug.

“Geralt!” He tried to articulate again, a little louder this time though still muffled by the gag in his mouth. A poet, and one well-versed in the art of language and oration, it pained Jaskier to tarnish Geralt’s name so, to utter it against such foul a thing, the pain was but little though, when the familiarity of his voice seemed to reach him, the Witcher seemingly perking up, stilled where he lay.

“Jaskier?” He called out, threw him a lifeline Jaskier was all too desperate to latch onto.

 _“Hmm.”_ He managed, would have reassured him that he was hale and whole still too, were he still capable of doing so.

“I’m… Where are we?” He asked, eyes blindfolded still, trying to figure out how far apart they were. Jaskier tried not to think of him adrift on his side of the cell, hoped Geralt did not think himself alone.

“Now now, Witcher,” Lord Erdeven all too quickly interrupted them, the moment gone before either of them could find comfort in the other, and Jaskier felt his heart pounding fast and light, little rabbit caught in a snare, a vicious beast just waiting in the underbrush for the opportune moment to prance upon him and tear him apart. “I think that is quite enough pleasantries for now. Why, you are in my dungeons, of course, and a very welcomed guest indeed.”

Geralt stilled at the sound of his voice, and above his blindfold, his eyebrows rose as recognition dawned upon him too, “Oh and how rude of you, laying there on your back when a Lord is gracing you with conversation, _men!”_

A snap of his fingers and sharp orders had both soldiers tensing, standing ready to obey, and for a moment, Jaskier considered whether, in the time they left him to tend to Geralt’s blindfold, if he could, perhaps, chance undoing his bindings, though with nowhere to escape and with no desire to leave Geralt behind, the bard quickly dropped his thoughts of a hasty retreat, and so Jaskier was forced to sit there and watch, passively, as all too brusquely did one of the guards make to reach for Geralt, hand reaching out for the leather shoulder-pad of his armour only for Geralt to pull away.

“I would not do that if I were you, Witcher,” Lord Erdeven commented, “If you show yourself uncooperative, your friend here might have a hard time of it.”

Geralt stilled instantly, and Jaskier felt guilt claw at his insides, for it felt wrong, to witness Geralt be so docile on his account – his big heart and endless capacity for care were undoubtedly things he loved about the Witcher, but when Geralt so readily let them come at the expense of his own well-being, Jaskier could not help but wish him to be, at times, a tad more selfish. He watched, disheartened, as both guards manhandled Geralt to his knees, their grips harsh around his shoulders, lithe figures he could all too easily have crushed were he not drugged and looking out for Jaskier’s safety.

It felt wrong, witnessing such debasement, not being able to do anything about it.

Jaskier supposed it had something to do with whatever he’d been drugged with, perhaps, if – _when_ – they got out of here, Yennefer might be inclined to help them with something for it.

“Just look at you,” Lord Erdeven observed, eyes raking down the length of Geralt’s figure like a hunter would its prey as he stood up, brushed the knees of his silk breeches, and there was something worrying about that light in his eye, how the flame of the torch reflected not the fear or apprehension he ought to have for Geralt, but rather, a morbid excitement Jaskier had no desire for him to pursue any further. “Completely at my mercy and oh so helpless, they don’t ever tell you how that feels, in the songs. Your bard will have to stop lying, step up his game a little.”

“Leave Jaskier out of this,” Geralt said sombrely, “It is me you want, is it not?”

Lord Erdeven smiled, eyes slithering down Geralt’s frame once again, exposing him to whatever it was he sought, and Jaskier felt it the moment he found it, his heart sinking as the man took notice of the bruising beneath the Witcher’s shirt at the collar. Again, he tried to pull forward, warn Geralt of what he’d unwittingly exposed so he could better hide what was not for Erdeven to see, but his voice was no longer his, and, powerless, Jaskier could do nothing else but watch, as with all too much eagerness did the lord press down on the hurt skin, wincing in sympathy when Geralt could do little else but bite down on his lip and choose not to give the man any further satisfaction than his surprise.

Perhaps he muttered something too – probably some variation of _fuck,_ Jaskier supposed. Geralt was, after all, ever so fond of the foul endearment.

“Not so proud now, are we Witcher?”

Jaskier would have had a couple of choice words for those who ceaselessly referred to Geralt like he was less than human. He’d thought – by now at least – that most of them had somewhat accepted Geralt, perhaps some a little begrudgingly still, but humanity on a whole had gotten better at showing the Witcher (and his brothers) decency and respect, though there obviously remained some beasts at large still, people whose minds he would never change no matter how much he poured his heart and soul into his songs, for making monsters out of men no doubt made them feel better about their questionable sense of humanity no doubt.

“Lord Erdeven,” Geralt grunted, voice hoarse still, “Can’t say it’s a pleasure. The fuck did you do to me?”

“Oh, good!” Their host clapped his hands, “No need for introductions I see, I like it when they’re smart. Is he that perceptive with you also?” The Lord asked him, his voice far too light, his smile far too thin to be anything truly genuine, for if he were to stretch his lips any further, the poor mask he’d hastily crafted would to naught but shatter, reveal the ugliness he hid beneath.

Jaskier gave a tug at his metal bindings once more, wincing as they chafed and cut deeper into the flesh of his wrist – by the time they would be done here, he’d be surprised if his limbs weren’t rubbed raw and plying his lute would be out of the question for the foreseeable weeks at least. Jaskier should have been upset, could not bring himself to care, really, if it meant he’d see both himself and Geralt safely out of here.

That Geralt was talked of as a mere curiosity, some fascinating creature one intended to buy to ornate one’s home, made his stomach roll, for the Witcher was far more than what the lord so readily thought of him, was a person who deserved a shred of the respect Lord Erdeven so readily lacked.

“Well,” He clapped his hands, making Jaskier jump in his seat, something sharp and unsettling in the sound that echoes in it’s wake, “Now that we are all up and about, let’s get down to business, shall we? Laszlo,” He said, turned to the man standing guard at the entrance of their cell, “Lazslo, do bring us some refreshments, for I am indeed quite thirsty.”

 _Refreshments,_ as it turned out, did not consist of a cup of fine wine or a glass of brandy, did not even consist of a glass of foul water that no doubt ran rampant in these underground cells. _Refreshments,_ was a tub of water placed at the centre of the room with a deafening thud, just a few feet in front of Jaskier, now obtruding Geralt from view (and maybe Jaskier took a moment to mourn the loss, it wasn’t like Erdeven would ever know), and while it looked harmless, where it sat, Jaskier felt something foreboding at the sight of it, something terrible coiling and twisting in his stomach, for surely, the Lord did not mean for them to quell their parched tongues.

“I hear Witchers have great stamina, courtesy of our dear bard’s songs over here, is that correct, Jaskier?” He asked him, lips still unnaturally stretched in a thin smile as he moved to stand right next to Geralt and Jaskier found himself wishing for the man to just step away, to leave Geralt alone, only he said nothing, and his anger was only a secondary emotion he lingered upon for just a moment only when the meaning of Erdeven’s words eventually caught up with him.

In a horrifying moment of clarity, Jaskier felt himself tense and his stomach drop, as it dawned upon him, what the man planned to do, and watched, heart pounding, as the tub was filled to the rim, the water already threatening to flow out on either side.

_No. No, no, no._

_Fuck, he couldn’t seriously be thinking-?_

Armed with the knowledge that, whatever happened Jaskier had to _stop_ this before it even started and heedless of the guard’s white-knuckled grip in his hair, Jaskier lurched forward, tried to catch the cloth of his gag in one of the buttons of his shirt and ripped it away from his mouth in a moment of panic, because Erdeven _couldn’t_ do this, not _this,_ not to _Geralt!_

Witchers were incredibly strong, Jaskier was not one to deny that, had witnessed Geralt’s ballets of force countless times over the years of their travels together, and when he’d needed help, Jaskier had always healed and helped put him back together, tended to his many scrapes and bruises and taught him to be gentled with himself when he could, yet _this…_ There was no possible way that Geralt would come out of this unscathed.

“No,” He blurted, refused to accept that even in his desperation for information, Lord Erdeven would turn to such a barbaric practice, would dare inflict it upon Geralt, who had done him no wrong, “No don’t you dare you piece of shit!”

It did little to dissuade him, of course, did little else than earn Jaskier a punch to the jaw, courtesy of the guard behind him, and ensuring that when he awoke tomorrow morning – if he would – his face would be marred by an ugly marking that would no doubt pain him for the days to come, yet it did not deter him, for it felt so insignificantly little when Jaskier weighed it to what they wihed to to to Geralt.

Heart pounding, he turned to the Witcher – the poor Witcher who could not see it coming with how his eyes were covered, and so Jaskier, heart in his throat, begged him, “Geralt you have to run, get away from here I don’t care, just get out of here! You can’t-!”

But while Geralt likely heard him, he did not move, the drug in his system no doubt preventing him from doing so, but at the sound of his sharp intake of breath and the way his entire body stilled, worry rolling off him in waves, Jaskier knew he understood the terror what was about to be done to him, dreaded it to, judging by the tenseness of his shoulders, and yet, all of his struggled proved for naught, for the two men behind him held firm.

 _Fuck_ the dinner. _Fuck_ the drug. _Fuck_ Erdeven. Fuck the lot of them, Jaskier thought bitterly, a lump in his throat and something stinging in the corner of his eyes – he would _not_ debase himself, however, he would not cry. They ought to never have come here in the first place.

“So, here is what we are going to do” Their host said, as he knelt before Geralt, a mockery of equality when, with the barest movement of his hand, he could order him drowned before his every eyes and there was nothing Geralt could do about it, “Your child surprise, little Cirilla, endearingly known as Ciri, has been spotted in Oxenfurt. As it happens, I have a vested interest in finding her and meeting her in person, and our mutual acquaintance here, Jaskier, happens to know the city quite well if I’m to believe what I’m told. And for your sake, Geralt of Rivia, I do indeed hope he _does_ know something.”

“Fuck you.” Geralt snarled, lip pulled back and teeth sharp, the beastly Wolf on display even in the face of torture.

“Afraid I don’t lean that way, Witcher.” Erdeven said, pat his cheek condescendingly and Jaskier itched to move – a burn oh so terrible just beneath his skin – would gladly let the cuffs rub his skin down till he bled if it meant he could break free, the noble at his mercy as he would mercilessly beat the living daylights out of him for daring even the suggestion of inflicting such a mockery of gentleness upon Geralt’s skin – how _dare_ he touch him like that when he meant it not with his whole heart? “Anyway, Julian, my question is actually for you, since of all of us present here, you are the one who knows Oxenfurt best. So here is my deal, and it’s quite simple, really.” He offered, talked of trading Geralt’s life like it was naught but a mere trifle to him.

“So, how about you tell me where the little brat is, and your dear Witcher here doesn’t get his respiratory skills put to the test?”

He might as well have had the breathe knocked out of him, Jaskier thought as his heart dropped at the ultimatum, both because of _what_ exactly had been asked of him and because of the sheer casualty of how it had been demanded. He loathed with a burning passion this false bonhomie Erdeven seemed to be so fond of, hated even more being faced with an impossible choice such as this one, and he bit his lip, his hands clenching at his sides, his heart beat too fast, for how _could_ he?

How was Jaskier to decide between Geralt and Ciri? How _could_ he chose one and so easily condemn the other? Geralt… Geralt meant everything to him, had ever since they had shared that first kiss – had ever since Posada, really, when he’d caught a glimpse of him nursing an ale alone in the corner of the tavern, and had decided then and there to befriend him, before either of them had truly known what would become of them – but on the other hand, when weighed against Ciri’s fate – poor Ciri who was still but a child, Ciri who had lost everything, Ciri who had so much to accomplish still, Ciri who had not asked for any of this, Ciri who Geralt loved like she were his own – Ciri who they all loved, Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer and the Wolves of Kaer Mohren – he would be absolutely furious were he to even _entertain_ the notion of giving her up to save him, and Jaskier knew he would never forgive himself.

But Jaskier simply could _not_ let something this horrible happen to Geralt without at least _trying_ to do something to stop it.

The water rippled, quiet and deadly, a chasm between them, and Jaskier swallowed, feeling sick. To be robbed of breath, to feel it cut off, to hold it in until he couldn’t and then breathe in, choke on water and feel the taste of true terror coursing through his body, to be held down and not even given the chance to save himself, the mere contemplation of the deed sent a fresh wave of horror down his spine, and knowing it would be him condemning Geralt to it by his choice to keep quiet twisted his insides so badly Jaskier thought he might be sick.

“Look,” He said, voice wavering dreadfully, his earlier venom and eagerness to fight back all but vanished, “My Lord, I’m sure we can talk this out-“

“Yes,” Lord Erdeven interrupted him, brow low and lips pulled taut, his entire posture austere and _less than willing_ to bargain or entertain some other offering Jaskier might be able to come up with, “You can do the talking.” He said, leaving no room for even the slightest half-formed rebuttal as his hand went to Geralt’s hair – and how dare he, Jaskier knew he would be washing his touch out of it for weeks to come – and Jaskier’s earlier apprehension felt so insignificant when compared to the cold-blooded terror that suddenly seized him in all of its might, sent him lurching forward in his bonds, entirely heedless of the pain in his scalp as his captor tried to hold him back. 

“No, please!”

“No please… What?” The Lord asked, holding one hand up to halt his execution for now, a momentary show of benevolence that Jaskier knew would not last, a benevolence the bard hated himself so badly for feeling even the faintest relief at, “Have you changed your mind, do you wish to talk?”

Jaskier swallowed, met Geralt’s eye and felt his heart crumble to pieces as the Witcher shook his head, just enough to not be imperceptible. His lips trembled, the answer they both knew _there,_ just waiting for him to breathe life into it and set it free, relieve them both of their misery but Geralt wished not for him to utter a word, Jaskier knew he couldn’t – for himself, for Geralt, but more importantly, for little Ciri herself – and so the words remained stuck in his throat, bitter and cloying, the weight of what his non answer would entail a terrible sentence robbing him of breath.

Lord Erdeven, for his part, seemed to care little for his struggle, gave hm a moment longer even to contemplate his answer – whether out of genuine wish for him to answer or so that Jaskier could anticipate what fresh horror awaited Geralt, he knew not – before shrugging, unaffected, and simply ordered Geralt be plunged back into the tub with far too much ease.

Somewhere, distantly, Jaskier thought me might have cried out for him, might have cursed and screamed, might have said a number of things really as dread had gripped him so completely, _anything,_ really, to drown out the sickening sound of Geralt struggling to breathe under the water. The hand around his shoulder keeping him in place amidst his fight to free himself had probably long since broken something – there was a dull throb, and Jaskier knew he would awaken to far more than a shattered heart by the time the sun rose tomorrow morning – and the restraints around his wrists had long ago bitten into his skin and drawn blood.

It all felt secondary, however, when compared to watching Geralt grappling with the two men holding him down, unable to draw even the slightest of breaths, seeing his shoulders jerk increasingly sporadically and as he could hear him cough and choke on the water, and Jaskier _knew_ – could feel it deep down in the very marrow of his bones, in the softest parts of his heart that had so far remained untouched by the ugliness the world had to offer – of the visceral fear that Geralt was probably overwhelmed with.

“Please!” He said – cried, now, for with each passing second Geralt’s head had disappeared in the tub, his restlesness grew – eyes momentarily turning back to Lord Erdeven, pleading – _begging_ – him to see reason, and then just as quickly did Jaskier turn back to Geralt, praying for him to move, praying for the drug to be let out of him so he could fight back, prayed for the Witcher to pull himself out of there and _breathe_.

Instead, Jaskier was made to wait.

And wait

_And wait._

Something agonizing burned in his breast, purposely slow, a deliberate agony for him to revel in as he could feel himself come apart at the seams, his shoulder twisted dangerously close to breaking point when he struggled yet again in an attempt to free himself.

“Hmm…” Lord Erdeven said after a while – too long – “I’ll show you mercy this time, bardling.” He said, a worrying lassitude in his voice, like he understood not the torture he was putting them both through – or, more worryingly perhaps, he understood all too well what he was doing, but merely did not care. Jaskier could not for the life of him tell which one was worse.

With the same motion of his wrist – something so small, so meaningless, like Geralt was not even worth him wasting _words_ on, and it should have offended Jaskier, poet who lived to gift his words to all who wiling to spare a moment or two to listen to him – Geralt was hauled out of the water, coughing and sputtering, soaked silver hair and lips trembling as his starved lungs begged for air.

Geralt who looked far too vulnerable, slumped between the two guards holding him upright, his chest rattling as he greedily sucked in what little reprieve he was gifted.

There was something else that was said, but Jaskier missed it, as it passed over him, for it felt insignificant, compared to the sweet _sweet_ relief of seeing Geralt alive and _breathing_. Perhaps it was uneven, perhaps the Witcher was wheezing and sputtering to a degree that ought to have been worrying, perhaps half of the water he’d drowned he was now coughing up instead, but he was alive, and really, Jaskier did not think it prudent to wish for anything further than that.

“So,” Lord Erdeven said, circling around them now, a beast entrapping it’s prey and taking all too much pleasure out of it, “I ask you again, Jaskier, have you changed your mind? Do you feel like talking yet?”

It was like he’d been doused in cold water _and_ if the air had been entirely knocked out of him, for the question, asked with a troubling nonchalance, came far too quickly for Jaskier’s liking – Geralt had barely been given a moment to breathe, let alone get his wits about him again, the lord could not possibly be considering to already- !

And yet, no sooner had the words left his mouth that Jaskier’s heart sank even lower and panic consumed him once more, as he watched, horrified, as the two guards by Geralt’s side were already hauling him back up and over the wooden tub, the Witcher barely resisting them this time, who could not even catch his eye when Jaskier desperately sought out his face. _They could not be serious, once had_ had _to have been enough, surely!_

“Please,” He said – _begged,_ maybe - again, cared less this time, if his voice lacked its earlier defiance or if a stronger hint of supplication now laced his words, for Jaskier knew with a terrible certainty that there was no way he could do this, there was absolutely _no_ way he could make the choice between saving Geralt or protecting Ciri, not after having been forced to watch-! He _wouldn’t,_ not again! “Please, don’t do this, _please,_ there must be something else I can do, anything!”

“Yes, there is.” Jaskier flinched at the sudden voice coming from behind him, the man leaning down just over his shoulder, unsettlingly close as he hissed in his ear and his hand pressed dangerously tight on his wrist – the bard thought, for a moment, that he would rather they break it to make him talk than harm Geralt any further, anything to spare the Witcher another drowning would be a blessing. “Tell us what we want to know and we might consider letting you both go on your merry way, it is that simple, really.”

The worst part was that, for the space of a second, Jaskier even considered it, and hated himself so profoundly for even _daring_ to do so.

But _how?_ How could he not? How could he not consider it even just slightly when Geralt lay there, motionless and completely at their mercy, beaten and wheezing and looking strangely vulnerable in his wet clothes – the Witcher would be shivering later, of that Jaskier had no doubt – silver strands of hair plastered to his forehead and his lips still a pale shade of blue as he had yet to fully recover from what had been done to him. All Jaskier could hear was Geralt’s pained coughing, how his lungs sounded clogged up, filled with water, how he coughed up little droplets still and how they each and every one of the stained the stone floor, a permanent reminder of what Jaskier’s choice to remain silent had cost.

“I…” He started, for the longer he looked, the longer it sank into hi that _he_ was the one who had done this, that Jaskier bore the sole responsibility for hurting the Witcher so, the more he wished to tell their captors everything, if only to spare Geralt for a moment, but the rest of his sentence died in his throat, the information they were craving so unwilling to pass his lips even now.

A flash of gold caught the corner of his eye, Geralt struggling to make it to his knees, his hair soaking wet as he flung the strands sticking to his cheek out of his face, and as their gazes met, at the unabashed trust the Witcher still held for him, Jaskier could feel something coming undone inside of him. How? How could Geralt trust him not to break, to not give in still, after what he had put him through? How could Geralt still believe in him so after Jaskier had landed them both in here to beginning with? How could Geralt still have this much faith in him not to unravel completely when Jaskier might as well be the one holding him down himself?

He had to end it, opened his mouth to stop the Witcher’s torment, the answer dangling ever so temptingly from his lips, but as the split-second stretched, as Geralt kept holding his gaze, firmly, Jaskier felt the words ripped out from him, for how – despite everything – how could he betray him so? How could he sell little Ciri out to a monster like Lord Erdeven for the briefest of respites?

“I… I can’t.” He choked out, the guilt consuming him down to the marrow of his bones, eating him up completely and tearing him apart from the inside as Jaskier sentenced Geralt once more.

 _Forgive me, Geralt,_ he thought.

“Shame.”

Who said it, Jaskier could not have said for certain, too busy was he trying to pull away as Geralt was submerged one again, had to bite his lip bloody to not cry out as he was held there, again, the guard behind him forcing him to watch with a harsh grip in his hear, his other one holding his chest, and Jaskier wondered, if the man could feel his heart breaking beneath his palm.

“You will _look,_ bardling, for this is your doing entirely.” He shook his head, wished he could deny it, and yet in his heart, the bitter words stung, for they rang true – he _was_ the one subjecting Geralt do this, wasn’t he? His penance, for choosing to stay silent, to have the strings holding the fractured pieces of his heart come undone, each minute pulling at the seams a little more the longer Geralt was held underwater and the less he struggled.

Oh what a terrible feeling it was, to have the one person who held his heart entirely hurt in such a horrific way. Oh what a terrible feeling it was, to know Jaskier was the sole one responsible for his suffering.

Something snapped inside of him, broke a little further, and Jaskier stopped trying to break free.

“You can end it all, you know,” Lord Erdeven offered, beside him now, his eyes kind and his tone gentle – gone was his earlier fervour, in its place a crafted illusion of ski-crawling benevolence, and Jaskier almost wished for him to go back to the nonchalant act, at least he would not have to listen to the man giving the pretence he actually _cared_ as he dangled an oh-so-tempting offer before his eyes, “You can end his suffering, make it easier on him. All you have to do is _tell_ _me_ what I wish to know. It is one place, one name, how much can _one_ name be in the grand scheme of things, eh?”

The gentleness was the worst of it, Jaskier thought, for he almost believed it – almost believed this would be all over were he to just talk – and something stung acutely in the corner of his eye as he realized what kind of trap he was being lured into. It felt wrong – _dreadfully_ so – to get him to talk like this, false promises of Geralt’s safety in exchange of one betrayal.

“Or you can let him drown, it’s really your choice.”

“Geralt… Geralt please!” Jaskier pleaded, for he had not the words to either take up or decline Lord Erdeven’s offer – not yet, he could not contemplate such a cowardly thing, he needed Geralt to rise up, fight back, to do anything!- “Geralt come on, you have to fight it! Geralt!”

 _“Oh Geralt_ this! _Oh, Geralt_ that!” The Lord sing-songed, Geral’s name an ugly mockery of the depth of affection one ought to have held for it upon his tongue, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say you cared for the Witcher.”

 _You wouldn’t understand even the barest layer of what it is I feel for him,_ Jaskier thought, a tad spitefully perhaps, for how could he when he so easily condemned a good man and Jaskier’s soul alongside it to what had to be one of the most tortuous fates imaginable with naught a second thought and lassitude in his voice? If Geralt stopped breathing, if Geralt…

He wished not to even entertain the thought, for Geralt couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – die on him, not here, not like this, not before he had lived a long, happy and fulfilling life beforehand.

Geralt, however, had ceased to struggle entirely, his body going horrifyingly still as still, he could not breathe, and it was all his fault _his fault his fault his fault-!_

A sharp clap sent a fresh wave of terror down his spine, and Jaskier was forced to tear his eyes away from Geralt, look back up courtesy of the hand in his hair, to where Lord Erdeven seemingly had little concern for Geralt and his heartbreak, the man tapping his foot as he still awaited his answer. “Location, bardling. Your concern is touching, but I’m afraid it is not getting me what I desire and…” He trailed off, spared a glance down to Geralt – still held there, still motionless, still _not breathing_ – “Time is such a precious thing, when one is under water.”

Jaskier knew that, of course, hated how even this was being rubbed in his face, and Geralt – poor Geralt who deserved absolutely none of this, Geralt who was being held there because Jaskier wouldn’t fucking talk, was too selfish a man and choosing to not find the right words to save him-

He _couldn’t,_ though, he couldn’t tell them about Ciri, he-

He had to save Geralt, he couldn’t let him die-

_Ciri-_

_Geralt-_

“I…” Jaskier bit his lip, flinched slightly, at the sharp metallic tang upon his tongue as his teeth broke skin – _let it drip,_ he though, it was the least of his problems right now, Geralt was suffering far worse than he, he had no right to complain – and felt his heart crack and splinter under the pressure, knew it would break before this was over and lay in pieces no matter what he chose to say. The choice was agonizing, every second spent trying to find who to condemn and who to save was another second the Witcher was left breathless, every second Jaskier did not choose was another second that could prove itself fatal, where Geralt might _die_ , where the bard was _killing_ him.

_Oh this was wrong, this was so wrong, Geralt never ought to have been caught up in something like this at all!_

He sobbed, ugly and loud, and perhaps if thing were not so dire, Jaskier might have had a moment to be embarrassed, until _finally,_ Geralt was mercifully hauled back up, sputtering, choking, his starved lungs begging for even the slightest slivers of air, and Jaskier never thought he’d ever been so relieved at the sight of the Witcher alive.

Their eyes met, a moment of shared horror amidst their torment, where nothing mattered but them. Jaskier had a thousand words to say, knew there was so much he ought to be telling him – from how profoundly sorry he was to be doing this to him to the most intimate of confessions laid bare before him lest they never get a chance to do so ever again, and yet the words would not come, felt poor and lacking, in the face of all he wished to tell him.

The moment broke a second later, the illusion of peace shattered before either of them truly got to indulge in it, and Jaskier felt something shift by his boot. He flinched back.

“I must say,” Lord Erdeven said, kneeling by Geralt’s side with none of the reverence he ought to have held for the Witcher, a mockery of what should have been something tender, “Your songbird isn’t very talkative, Witcher.”

Geralt let a moment pass, coughed up the remainder of the water and blinked whatever had been left in his eyes, “Why would he be, with a fucker like you”, He spat, growling still, despite his sore throat, and at the sight of him, White Wolf not even torture would hold down, Jaskier felt the corners of his lips twitch with what might have been pride. Even now, even with what he’d put him through, Geralt still stood tall.

And then, just as quickly was his relief snapped from him, Jaskier left in the cold clutches of despair, a biting touch sinking into his skin as the lord’s lackey’s hand went back to Geralt’s hair.

“Well, bardling, change your mind?”

The words escaped him, still, for what could Jaskier say without giving anything away? Geralt and he had both long ago sworn each other that, no matter the cost, Ciri would come before anything, that they would both readily sacrifice their lives for her if it ever came to it. It had been such an easy promise to make too – for all of them, he, Geralt, Yennefer and the Wolves – for Ciri was so easy to love, her protection had been a cause worth dying for.

Jaskier had just never imagined that he would have been forced to watch Geralt _die_ for it, had never even once given thought to how agonizing it would be to witness.

He could have ended it, could have saved him, yet the words keeping the princess safe refused to come, still, a price for Geralt’s life he could not yet bring himself to pay.

He no longer fought it, when the hand in his hair pulled, raised his head once more, and the pieces of is shattered heart turned to dust as Geralt graced him even now with the tiniest of smiles before they pushed him back into the water again – and again and again and again until he would talk. How many times they had repeated it now, Jaskier knew not, the horror of it still fresh each time.

Jaskier had thought, by now, that he’d surely endured the worst of it – his wrists were rubbed raw against his own restraints, markings that would bear his skin for weeks to come at least, and though the tears trailing down his cheek would eventually cease, the bitter sting of them upon his skin would not be something he would forget anytime soon. And yet, all of it paled, seemed like nthing at all when, a moment – hours? Days? Weeks? Jaskier didn’t know, anymore, how long they had been here - later, Geralt’s struggles and muffled cries ceased entirely.

His insides turned to ice, it hurt to breathe, his heart skipped a beat and stayed, suspended, just long enough for Jaskier to know that this was, indeed, terribly _real_. And Geralt wasn’t moving.

“Geralt?” He whispered, a prayer for salvation.

Geralt didn’t move, blood pounded in his ears – loud, deafening, perhaps the beat of it could even drown out the sound of his soul cracking - and Jaskier’s heart still remained in suspense, had yet to start beating again. (Perhaps it was fitting, he thought, that it never restart, perhaps it was a fitting end to his story, for him to die here with Geralt).

Geralt shouldn’t – couldn’t - die, not like this, not when he had so many years still to live. It wasn’t right.

“Geralt! For fuck’s sake Geralt, _move!”_ He said – cried and begged unashamedly – as he lurched forward, grief and anger ceding way for impulsivity, a desperate urge to touch, to reach out for him and pull the Witcher close, cradle him safely to his chest and feel him _breathe_ against his skin overwhelming.

It earned him a solid fist to the nose and possibly a distant _shut up!_ – blood pounding in his ears, his breathing erratic, Jaskier wasn’t sure what noise came from him and what was from his captors anymore – the warm trickle down his face an oh-so-distant and seemingly insignificant concern when compared to the horror that befell him as he spied a hint of worry sneaking it’s way upon Lord Erdeven’s face. _He’s killed him, he’s done it this time he’s killed Geralt! Oh gods oh gods oh gods-!_ His stomach lurched, the fractured pieces of his broken soul lay at his feet and the world cracked at the edges as it slid down his cheeks.

Geralt was dead, and it was all his fault.

Geralt was dead, and he’d never told the self-sacrificing fool he loved him.

The last thought made something ache terribly in his chest, grief for a future lost by his own hand, a plethora of feelings and emotions the Witcher and he would never get to share and explore because of Jaskier’s selfishness. It was wrong, for things to end like this, a story still incomplete for Geralt had not the other half yet.

“Geralt _please!”_ He begged, cried, sobbed his heart out, a plea wishing him back to life as his wrists and heart ached and bled for him with apology and hurt.

He could not get any closer, the metal cuffs around his arms too tightly bound for Jaskier to hope breaking free, and so he was sentenced to sit there, a horrified spectator of his own macabre tableau as, heart in his throat, a second passed, and then another, and another still, as Geralt was pulled back from the tub, thrown to the floor like some wild animal of no consequence and kicked in the ribs for good measure. The bard should have been angry – furious, even, for how dare they so readily infict such violence upon Geralt like that, a bound man who was in no condition to fight back –yet had no room in his heart for such a consuming emotion, for he was feeling far too much already.

Jaskier would stab the fuckers later, he swore to himself. Once they got out of here, once Geralt was safe and sound, then he would come back, sharp dagger in hand and he would make them suffer and -

Whatever morbid fate Jaskier had wished to befall them, whatever anger he’d wished to unleash upon them, it was only secondary to the pang of sweet sweet relief that flooded his chest when Geralt jerked on the floor – once, twice – as he came to, body twitching and convulsing, choking and gulping for air like he’d never been so starved of it before in his life. It was an ugly sound, pained and hoarse, and yet Jaskier could not, in that moment, have wished for sweeter music.

Geralt was alive, and that was all that mattered.

He lay there, for a moment, as if unsure whether he was truly alive or not, appraised his body, made sure he was still in one piece, and Jaskier cared not what questions Lord Erdeven might have for him then, for as long as Geralt drew breath, he knew he would be all right.

Only Jaskier ought to have expected for things to go south, for it was naught but fitting, that his brief – too brief, were one to ask him – moment of respite be shattered.

“So,” Lord Erdeven observed, and his lack of relief – his lack of _everything_ since this terrible interrogation had begun – was wrong, unsettling in a way that made Jaskier’s skin crawl, for rarely did humans have such a fascination with the inflicting of such abject misery, “The Witcher lives.”

The disinterest sent a chill down his spine and tears of a different kind now, rolling down his cheek.

“Seems like you have another chance to talk, bardling. So I’d be very careful about what words I’d say next if I were you if you don’t want your beast to die.”

Geralt – _poor Geralt_ – could not hear a word of it, and what kind of fresh hell that must have been for him, Jaskier could not bring himself to contemplate right then, too terrified as he was in his own skin. He lay there, unmoving, unsettlingly still, weak and pliant in the hands of the Lord’s two servants, pliant in the grip of those all too eager to hurt him – because of Jaskier, _this is your fault and yours alone, if you would just_ talk _this would not be happening at all_ – merely let himself be moved, hauled up once again and dragged back to the wooden tub, dragged back for more-

“W-What are you-?” Jaskier did not get the chance to finish before trepidation ceded way to heart-numbing fear, found himself once again pulling against his restraints, damaged and bleeding skin pulled taut beneath metal cuffs and the vice-like grip in his hair pulling some loose with a sharp tug as he was made to stay in place as Geralt was once more manhandled over too the tub. Only this time it was far worse, for Geralt had no fight left in him, did not move, did not strain against his bonds or snap and snarl – he did nothing, for he’d not yet had the time to recover from her previous drowning.

There no longer was enough fight left in him, and Jaskier’s poor broken heart sank even further.

He couldn’t watch it again, did not think he would survive it. Going on without Geralt was not even a question – his body might not die in here, but were Jaskier to walk out of this cell alone, he knew his soul would have been buried next to the Witcher, an empty husk of who he had once been set free to breathe out the rest of it’s miserable and lonely existence. Leaving Geralt behind, condemning him to death was an impossibility, his fractured soul would not be able to take it and yet he had little choice.

Jaskier stopped fighting, let the guards hold him still and watched, absently, as Geralt was forced under again. It wasn’t as sharp to him this time, and the bard knew not whether he really ought to have been counting his tears as a blessing but little mercies were welcomed in such dire times, the Witcher trembling as e was held there – whether it was actually Geralt or a product of his own tears, he could not tell, whose pain it was made little difference.

He couldn’t bear any more of it. Geralt, self-sacrificing fool that he was, might have wished for him to hold out – and truly, Jaskier loved him for it, most times, his sense of duty and is bleeding heart made the Witcher so loveable – but not like this. He would not stand for Geralt dying for him.

“Let him go, please!” He pleaded, debased himself so completely at Lord Erdeven’s feet as he turned to him, despair he no longer sought to keep from him as he begged him, “Please, you’re _killing_ him!”

“Now now, you’ll not get anywhere with an attitude like that, bardling. I’m the one calling the shots here, remember?” He said as he leaned over, tapped his cheek with a touch that oozed of condescension.

If it weren’t about to make matters so much worse for Geralt, Jaskier knew he would not have hesitated even a moment, would have bitten the man’s fingers till they bled and he howled in agony.

“You want your monster – Witcher, pardon my language, and gods know why you care so much, but I suppose you must have your reasons, strange as they may be – and you can have him, for a price.” He said, meeting his eye, his tone never once straying from the easy conversation he seemed to think this interrogation to be, “Like I said, I just want one small piece of information, the girl. It is a fair trade, don’t you think? You tell me where she is, and I’ll let him go, I promise.”

That he talked of trading Geralt for Ciri like they were some kind of commodities, like they had no lives, emotions, thoughts or feelings aside from what he wished to do with them, made Jaskier feel queasy, resentment and anger burning deep in his breast at the injustice he would inflict upon them.

“Fuck you!” He spat, “You let Geralt go, now!”

Perhaps, after a moment, Jaskier thought anger was not the best way to go about things, for upsetting the Lord had gained them no favours so far. And really, how could the man ask him to think straight when Geralt lay there, unmoving, face down in the water and might die at any moment?

Geralt couldn’t fight anymore, he needed Jaskier to fight for him, but how? How could Geralt expect him to chose between the Witcher and his child surprise?

Ciri or Geralt?

Ciri or Geralt?

_Ciri or Geralt?_

He _loathed_ himself, a visceral hatred that burned down to the marrow of his bones and tainted his heart black, for even entertaining the idea again, for even daring to think of Geralt’s life as equal to the princes’ when he knew the Witcher would, under other circumstances, throttle him, repeat it again that _no matter what happens, Ciri’s life always comes first_. Jaskier knew it, of course, hated how the betrayal sat heavily in his breast, a taste unpleasantly sour upon his tongue and had him bow his head in shame as the pressure got to him, but he _couldn’t_ let Geralt die.

He couldn’t.

Kaer Mohren was sacred, to the Witchers of the Wolf school, a little haven for them to call their own on a Continent that ceaselessly ostracised them, made them errands and pariahs living on the edge of the world, and the thought of a man like Erdeven getting his hands on that sacred knowledge, of him invading the sanctity of a place Geralt and his family had built, a home where Geralt had had, once upon a time, a life, made Jaskier feel ill.

But Kaer Mohren was not Geralt, Kaer Mohren did not breathe, did not _live._ Kaer Mohren itself was not sentient, did not have golden eyes that creased at their corners when Roach bumped Eskel in the chest, seeking another apple, nor did it have silver hair that glowed under the moon, Kaer Mohren did not let Jaskier run his fingers in her locks nor whisper sweet nothings in the shell of her ear. Kaer Mohren could be rebuilt, the transgression of Lord Erdeven ever setting foot in there could be wiped out, with time.

If Geralt died…

“Even if I did tell you, you would not let him go, would you?” He said, voice meek, body folding in on itself as much as his constraints would allow. Jaskier wished he could curl up and die, his shrivelled self willing to give up if it meant Geralt would be spared further harm.

“Well, we’ll never know that until you tell me, won’t we?” A non-answer if ever there was one, Jaskier hated how familiar the ways of the upper class still were to him, despite having left Lettenhove and its circle of nobles a lifetime ago.

There was something heavy and cloying in his throat, and betrayal tore at his heart. Geralt would hate him for it, would loathe him oh so fiercely for doing this, would strike him with words if not his bare hands – the sting would be the same, the hurt and open wound Jaskier would never be able to atone for – as he would wish him off his hands once more and send him out of his life, except the bard knew with heart-breaking certainty that Geralt would mean it this time. This thing they had come to share, this thing they had built, broken and mended over the years they had spent together, Jaskier would break it irreparably by betraying him so, but if this treachery of his was what it took to save Geralt’s life, then he did not think he had much of a choice.

What good was Jaskier keeping the Witcher’s secrets if Geralt died because of him for them? What life awaited him out there, were Geralt not there to share it with him?

Geralt might curse him, might lash out at him and strike him down where he stood – would be entierly justified, and Jaskier did not think he would not let him take his vengeance – but it was better than for him to die, for a world without Geralt was not a world Jaskier thought he wished to have any life in.

With a shuddering breath he looked away, eyes carving new lines between the old stones of the prison walls, the shame too great for Jaskier to meet anyone’s eye, “Ciri isn’t in Oxenfurt.” He said, voice small, the words poison upon his tongue and seeping into his blood. _Traitor._ He could not articulate any louder than a whisper, for it seemed ill fitting to lay Geralt’s secrets out bare in anything but, the poor Witcher not getting a choice in the matter. “North of Kaedwen, in the mountains, there is a Witcher fortress, the School of the Wolf, Kaer Mohren. Princess Ciri is there.”

He hung there, curled in on himself, body aching, eyes wet and heart in pieces, Jaskier desperate for this to be over. “Now _please,_ let Geralt go.” He begged, wide-eyed and pleading, whatever sliver of a fight he might have once had now laid to rest.

Erdeven pondered upon it for a moment, muttered something unintelligible to himself and drew it out, Jaskier’s heart pounding so loud, it was a wonder it had not rendered them all deaf. He tensed as, after a tortuously slow minute, the man turned to face him once more, his habitual smile impossible to read even now.

“I suppose it’s the least I can do for your troubles.” He conceded, a nod to the two men on the other side of the cell as he beckoned them closer. Jaskier felt his body tense, his hands trembling as they approached, far too quickly for him to hope to do anything to fight them, and he gulped at the sound of one of them drawing his blade, watched, with baited breath and heart fluttering in panic as he brought it dangerously close to his skin. He took a moment to drag the blade over his skin, the knife never cutting, but the threat ever present as he pressed, cold and calculated, _just enough_ for it to hurt, _just enough_ for it to not draw blood as he slipped it beneath his cuff.

Not that it would have changed anything, the cuffs had long ago been stained red in his struggled, his wrists were ruined for months to come.

When, exactly, they were left alone, Jaskier could not have said for certain, but Erdeven must have freed him and given him a moment to breathe, for next time he opened his eyes, they were gone.

Only he and Geralt remained.

Geralt who had still yet to move, and Jaskier, coward that he was, spared himself a moment to curl up on his chair, dared not leave his precarious sanctuary and step into the consequences of what he had wrought upon him.

“Geralt?” He asked instead, a tremor in his voice, a tangible tremble in his words at his hesitation. The echo it left behind didn’t even sound like him. “Geralt, can you talk to me?”

More shame threatened to further fracture the bone of his shoulders and cripple Jaskier completely as he bent over the Witcher, his head barely brushing his chest, the guilt devouring him whole. He knew it wasn’t fair, that he had no place seeking comfort when Geralt was so hurt – how dare he be selfish when Geralt was the one who had nearly died? – but his body would not listen. Exhausted, the bard stayed there, hovering, one trembling hand coming to brush a stray hair out of Geralt’s face, a poor fix for the harm he had caused him.

“Geralt come on, you have to breathe, in and out.” His voice shook, fear in his throat still as Geralt coughed up what could easily have been the entire Pontar, and although he had no place touching him after what he had done, Jaskier found his hand straying to Geralt’s back, light pats – a gesture barely there, for he knew not if Geralt wished for it, thought it more prudent to let him feel hmi as little as possible after what he had done – as he coughed, his breathing just on that side of a little more even after a minute.

“Jaskier?” He asked, his voice gruff, something scratchy in his throat, Geralt looking up at him where he was slouched beside the tub. Jaskier tried not to think too much about how the Witcher had yet to push him off him, how he’d not yet slapped his hand away.

“Oh thank gods” Jaskier half-breathed half-sobbed, hands trembling, still, around Geralt’s shoulders, knew he would fall to his knees any minute now, completely undone, heart left in pieces he was not sure he’d ever be able to put back together again. “You’re alive”, He breathed, hands hovering over him, itching to touch yet not daring to do so, as if he thought Geralt would break under the mere brush of his fingers, “You’re still alive, oh thank gods Geralt!”

There was something sour in the air, as Jaskier hiccupped beside him, breath uneven upon the exposed skin of his neck and it was as something wet met his skin – warm and apologetic, nothing like the numbing chill of the tub, that Geralt realized he was crying.

“Jaskier,” He said, gently, fingers carding through familiar strands of brown hair, the gesture intimately soothing for the Witcher, as he let his exhausted body indulge in a slight reprieve. “Jaskier… Are you crying?”

The bard stilled, Geralt’s question painfully touching, and Jaskier could do little else but choke, cry harder as he said, “Of course I am, you big oaf, you nearly died!” He huffed, an ugly amalgamation of heartbreak and concern caught between what could have been laugh or sob – neither would ever know for certain – Geralt’s complete lack of anger towards him only making Jaskier unravel further in his arms. He didn’t deserve this kindness, not after what he’d put him through, could not ever deserve it again until he’d worked his way back into Geralt’s good graces, bought his forgiveness.

“But I didn’t.”

Jaskier swallowed, hard, leaned into Geralt further when the Witcher’s hold tightened around his back, the familiarity of his warm hands a welcomed comfort after having been strapped down to a chair. “No, I know you didn’t, but you could have, you almost did, because of me.” Jaskier mumbled into his shoulder, the weight of it all threatening to rob him of his breath still. “I’m so sorry, Geralt, for pissing him off, getting us into this mess, and then-and then what I said about Ciri and Kaer Mohren… Gods I’m so sorry Geralt!” He cried, the soaked remainders of Geralts clothes chilling him to the bone – coward that he was, Jaskier could not face him, for while the guilt of his admission –htough not pleasant- he could still bear, the remorse he knew undoubtedly awaited him were he to witness the carnage he’d wrought upon Geralt himself with his silence would swallow him whole right then and there.

“Hey,” Geralt said, voice still hoarse, but a sensitivity that was all his coming to curb the harsher edges of it now, as he reached a hand out for Jaskier, heart swelling when after a moment of hesitation, the bard still took hold of it, and brought it to his cheek, let the warmth of his palm soothe his frozen skin as, with his other hand, Geralt gently rubbed around his damaged wrist.

They sat there, let the quiet instant stretch on, content to merely breathe and exist in the moment, an unspoken apology and forgiveness exchanged in the tenderness of their touch as they each found solace in the other, in the fact that, despite it all, they were still alive.

“Don’t apologize, Jaskier, you did what you could.” And, before he could interrupt him, Geralt continued, “The only ones to blame for my state are those bastards, not you, all right?”

For a second, Jaskier looked as though he might argue, might try to goad Geralt into blaming him for their predicament and pick a fight to feel validated in his guilt – a bait the Witcher would not rise to, for it would do neither one of them good to wallow in misery – but, deflated, whatever words he’d been about to utter died on his tongue, instead chose to rest his head against his shoulder, a closeness Geralt appreciated all too much, after having been separated so.

“How are we going to get out of here, Geralt?” Jaskier despaired, his question voiced barely above a whisper, tickling the skin of his neck, Geralt’s other hand coming gently to encircle his ruined wrist a consoling gesture, the biting edge of the hurt he’d inflicted upon himself in his struggles eased, somewhat, as Geralt’s thumb caressed his injury.

“Hey,” He chuckled, Geralt glad it seemed to draw some sliver of a smile from him, even if it was but a tentative one, “I’m the one who should be doing the comforting, you know?”

“You are.” Geralt said, voice low, a quiet confession that seemed to echo impossibly loud in their cell, yet nobody but the two of them to hear.

“I am?”

“You’re still here, still alive, your voice… It helps keep me here too, and that’s enough for me.” Geralt said as he ran a thumb across the skin of his cheek, his touch warm and familiar, soothing and feather light as it brushed over the bruise left his captor, and with a tender flick of his thumb, Jaskier felt him wipe away the stray tears he’d not managed to hold in, forgiveness a soothing balm upon his skin as the worst of the pain and as the Witcher turned to him, bumping his forehead with his own.

It left him crying harder, and Jaskier let himself have it, let himself fall apart now that it was safe, let the world shift around him as it ran down his cheeks, Geralt’s touch enough to ground him here with him. For that – the touching, knowing he was there, that they were still here, together, no matter what might happen around them – that was enough for him.

“Of course,” He sniffled, swallowing, “Thank you, Geralt.”

“We’ll make it out of here, Jaskier.” Geralt promised, “I swear, we’ll find something.”

Jaskier nodded, selfishly allowed himself another moment of tenderness as he stayed there, still, just breathing, before pulling back. The world was slightly tilted still, for his tears had yet to dry.

“You should rest,” He told Geralt, the poor Witcher threatening to topple over where he knelt, and perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps fear – perhaps both and the comfort they drew from each other – but Geralt did not utter a word of protest when Jaskier brought him to him, opposed not, when with a gentle hand he lay his head upon his lap, golden eyes fluttering shut as Jaskier’s hand wend back to carding through his silver tresses, the faint notes of a song he might have known lulling him into rest.

They were far from safe, that he knew, but right then, as Geralt lay tucked away in Jaskier’s embrace, the Witcher felt safe, a familiar warmth in the hands around his shoulders and the faint heartbeat he could make out above him a consoling tender acquaintance that made sleeping in a cold cell almost bearable. He could trust him to keep watch – for a short while, at least.

Geralt let his eyes flutter shut, abandoned himself to the darkness, one last gentle brush against his cheek sending him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Being a concise writer? I don't know her.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Held at gunpoint  
> Day 10: blood loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no guns in the Witcher universe, so this is set in a Princess Mononoke AU, where Geralt is Ashitaka and Jaskier is San. Super niche AU I know, I blame these two really lovely pieces of fanart I happened across earlier in the year on Tumblr and my love for the original Gibli movie.

By no means did Geralt ever consider himself to be lacking in strength. Being a Witcher, and one who’d had the, chance to train at Kaer Mohren under Vesemir’s watchful eye at that, Geralt had lived through excruciating trials no child ought ever to have experienced, and in the years following, his body had grown quite familiar with a litany of bruises, cuts and wounds. Pain had become something his bones had gotten used to over time, an aching old friend he’d grown all too intimate with as he’d learnt to wield sword, axes and signs, and what Geralt had then lacked in softness, he’d more than compensated for in hardiness of both body and mind.

And if, somehow, little slivers of tenderness had not quite been snuffed out yet, then Geralt was certain that the curse the kikimora god had so spitefully bestowed upon him with its dying breath had more than made up for it, the ugly mark that spread with a worrying speed still across his skin having granted him a terrifying strength he’d not yet quite mastered – a strength he probably never _would_ master, for Geralt was nothing if not cynical, knew well that the curse would probably devour him whole and turn him into a beast for the remainder of his long life, were he to somehow fail at finding the Forest Spirit first.

Yet, despite such a gift, Geralt could feel his entire body aching, as he dutifully worked the bellows alongside the women of Cintra, like he’d promised them he would. He’d not really thought it through, when he’d given them his word that he would drop in for a while and help them out, had not thought anything more beyond giving them a couple of hours of his time – and, really, what else would he be doing? – yet now began to sorely regret it, the taste of his hasty pledge having turned bitter upon his tongue. His arms ached from the strain, the sweltering heat of the forge made his shirt cling to his skin most uncomfortably and down the length of his back, Geralt could feel a horrible bead of sweat take its sweet damn time, _just perfect_. He dared not voice his ailment, for none of the women around him did and it felt not like his place to complain when they so readily accepted him, Witcher physiognomy, ugly scars, reserved nature and all, and as he listened to them converse around him, puffed and panted as they talked of what they intended to buy at the baker’s or how one’s child hoped to gain an apprenticeship with the blacksmith, the Witcher could not help but be impressed. Despite the pressure Queen Calanthe had them under to make more weapons to better counter an imminent siege from Nilfgaard, the women of Cintra still found it in them to keep their spirits high, and while Geralt participated not much in their talk, they did not recoil from him like so many others did, a tiny gesture of acceptance that had not gone unnoticed by him.

“You’re not half bad, for a novice.” Milva commented from beside him, hands on her hips as she eyed his posture, amusement at his exertion obvious in her expression, though he knew she meant it not spitefully, “But if you keep that rhythm up, you’ll never last the night. A Witcher you might be, but I’d wager ten ducats that even these bellows could beat you soundly after a couple of hours.”

“It’s no easy work,” Geralt was forced to admit between two pants, his shoulders cramping once again as he pulled down on the rope, “I’ll give you that much.”

“Indeed, and we do this all week.”

Geralt had thought that the bruising he’d once been accustomed to during the trials had been bad, and perhaps it was so long ago now that he’d forgotten how most of it felt, but he was tempted to think of the current ache in his bones as far worse than anything he could remember from back then, “It must make for a hard life.”

“I suppose,” She conceded, several other women around her nodding in ascent, “But there are certainly less enviable fates out there. It certainly beats Nilfgaard slitting our throats, or worse, taking us back there for a life of indentured servitude. I hear slaves fare poorly down there, isn’t that right, ladies?”

A chorus of agreement arose around him, peppered with several rather colourful curses Geralt had grown accustomed to since arriving in Cintra, and as the women went back to talking – he knew not of what, for he tuned out their chatter after a while – all he could think of was of the warm feeling burning in his breast, as none here looked upon him like the monster he was, showed considerably less anguish towards his clawed fingers and sharp teeth, talked proudly of having little fear facing down his cursed form, were the wolf he tried so hard to keep at bay beneath his skin ever to rear its ugly head and be set loose in the streets of the city.

It was a nice feeling, after so long wandering alone, to be reminded that decency could still extend her hand towards him when so many others had scorned him with stones and spears and upon their tongues, nothing but curses lashing out at him, sending Geralt and his monstrous monikers on their way. Some looked on in fear, still, at the ugly marking of the curse upon his arm and the fangs he now had for teeth, he supposed he could not be so lucky as to have them all turn the other cheek, and if Geralt happened to feel the beastly claws replace his nails as they bit into his skin in those moments, he tried not to think too hard as to why that might have been. He was welcomed here, mostly, and for a moment, he could almost forget about his blasted curse.

He even began to think that a little humanity was a nice thing, of a mind that, if he could indulge in it more, then maybe the curse the Great Kikimora had inflicted upon him might lift, one day, if Geralt could find the strength to let go of the beastly instincts that lay dormant within him, snapping to attention with far more frequency than he would have liked to admit recently.

His peace, of course, did not last, for like most nice things in life, Geralt seemed not entitled to luxuriate in it more than a fleeting couple of moments. He’d but barely entertained the thought of healing, a blissful feeling of peace floating in his soul, when a harsh rustling and sharp clatter could be heard behind him, and above the muted chatter of the women beside him rose the distinctly unpleasant stench of terror and a clear and distinctively male voice, _“He’s here! The wolf boy is here!”_

For a brief second, Geralt was permitted to hang onto his calmness, was permitted to be content with the way things were, to trick himself into believing he could come here every morning, maybe one day talk of mundane things like how one was to go about shoeing Roach to the women who knew nothing of the trade, or how he cared for his leathers, might even consider sharing a little of the knowledge he’d been given at Kaer Mohren with them so they too, could care for their belongings in their own homes. It was an _almost,_ in arm’s reach if he was foolish enough to grasp onto it and let himself have it, yet his fingers closed around thin air, the promise of a life left dangling above him, never for him to touch, for around him, where only a moment ago everything had stopped, now seemed to have been put in motion again, only far too fast.

Panic erupted, cries of despair echoed left and right and the sheer stench of _fear_ reeked around him, cloying and unpleasant as it stuck to his skin and seeped into his very pores, worry for their lives, that of their husbands and their children the only distinct thing Geralt thought he could make out in their panicked haze.

“Oh no, can’t the beast leave us alone for _one_ night?”

“Fuck, not again! We barely recovered from his monsters’ rampage last time!”

“Oh, I’ll skin the little shit alive if I’m ever to get my hands on him!”

“Someone must warn Queen Calanthe! She must be kept safe!”

 _“Enough!”_ Beside him, Milva stood, stern, commanded attention as she kept her voice levelled, though Geralt could tell it was just a front, the twitch of her brow betraying the frayed nerves she tried to much to hide to her companions. “We must trust her, the Queen knows what she’s doing, she’s handled the wolves before. Our place is here, we _cannot_ let these fires go out ladies!”

Geralt watched, impressed, as the women got back to work, sought not to doubt Milva any further nor question her decision, and it wasn’t all that surprising, really, that she seemed to be the one in command. Perhaps it was why he let her pull him aside with a tug on his sleeve, another woman hastily replacing him as he stepped down. He tried not to think too hard on how, beneath his sleeve lay the ugly curse, how Milva had taken hold of it like it almost mattered not to her what he hid beneath his skin.

“Milva?”

“Geralt, we’ll be all right here, I’ll keep watch. Think you can head out here? I’m sure the royal guard could use your help, the beast is a right pest!”

Geralt had caught a glimpse of him, a fleeting moment by a riverside he thought of far too often for his liking, remembered still with vivid clarity a human with brown hair tending to its wolf-mother’s injuries, the sharp contrast of the crimson blood staining his lips and his eyes ever so blue as, across the river, their gazes had met and his heart might have skipped a beat. He thought, then, that the boy from the forest might have been his one chance to find salvation, to find the Forest Spirit and see the curse poisoning his blood and soul lifted at last before it was too late – Geralt wanted to live, still _ached_ for that sliver of hope at salvation, and with the Wolf boy here, in Cintra, he could not let his minute chance slip through his fingers like silver sand again.

“Why come here, though?” He asked, for a city of stone and iron was about the last place he could think of for such a man to come willingly, “I thought the wolves kept to the forests, mostly. Queen Calanthe said they only tended to attack processions passing through their parts, they never chanced an attack on the city itself.”

“If what the Queen says is true, the beasts are growing desperate. They know they are dying, they know their age is coming to an end,” Milva said, a weariness to her tone, shoulders sagging, like they’d been through this too much, “It’s not uncommon for them to come here to attack us, though they’ve not been successful so far. The Wolf and its mother want us out of here. They’re demons, the lot of them, and they’re upset we’re taking what they believe to be rightfully theirs. But, Geralt, you must understand, these trees, these mines, we need them if we’re to survive against Nilfgaard, we’d be naught but sheep walking to the slaughter if we were to stop now, and given how enraged the wolves have gotten, I do not believe they’d be willing to even entertain holding talks, if diplomacy is a concept they’re even familiar with. He’s here for revenge, on behalf of the trees and creatures and demons, for every one Queen Calanthe has struck down, as if those beasts have souls.” She shook her head, though it held no condescension, just exhaustion, a woman who’d seen too much, who wished for nothing more than a little quietude to be allowed back into her life.

Geralt understood the feeling all too well, chose not to comment even if his thoughts strayed to a godly kikimora that could so easily have wiped out his entire village, how even in death, even as it had been spitting out black blood in its very last moments, it had so readily given itself over to anger and resentment, had chosen to curse him with a deep and dying voice that still sent a shiver of pure fear run down his back as it planted the seeds of a wild and monstrous beast inside of him. He kept such thoughts to himself, thought it not the time to share such a story.

“Queen Calanthe is strong, however, she’ll best him.” Milva said, conviction at the Queen’s infallibility in her voice, and at the mention of her ruler, her body held high with pride, spoke of a promise of pain to whoever dared cross her sovereign. Geralt stood, could feel the passion in her voice, could see the fire burning bright, still, in her eyes and her belief strong in her heart, admired the woman for still holding on to notions he’d long since laid to rest, for his curse had brought upon him nothing but miserable anger and a bone-gnawing weariness. Since leaving Kaer Mohren, he’d seen far too much fighting over the most petty of quarrels, such disregard for life and needless spilling of blood and knew that, were it in his power to stop it, he did not think he could bear any further bloodshed.

 _Let’s hope it does not come to that,_ Geralt thought as he nodded, let Milva go back to her workers before he darted down the street, his arm aching once again in tune with the dizzying ringing of multiple gunshots around him. The smell of gunpowder and smoke permeated the air, stung his eyes and scratched the back of his throat unpleasantly as Geralt darted around one corner and the next, knew that the wolf boy was likely headed for the town square. His heart beat loudly in his chest, pumped in unison with the throb in his arm and drowned out any cries from apprehensive Cintran onlookers as he passed them, the Witcher letting memory guide him back to the grand place. For a moment, he entertained the thought of intercepting the conflict, thought that both the Queen and the Wolf might listen to reason were he to force them to, only the increasing number of soldiers and men in his way dissuaded him – a fool Geralt might have been, but he was not willing to try and cross them if Calanthe gave the order to strike him down, knew that were he to let his rage reign freely, the beast would take control, and another massacre would further stain his hands forever. Blaviken had been bad enough, it was long ago now, and Geralt had still not managed to either wipe the blood off his hands or let go of the heavy tendril of guilt that had lodged itself firmly around his heart ever since. _No,_ he was not some monster, he could not let its instinct rule him now, he was better than that.

An explosion right beside him, sudden, unexpected and oh so terribly _loud_ , sent Geralt crouching to the ground, hand covering his ears as debris of a thatched roof and shards of the wooden beam holding the structure together landed around him, some more minute pieces flying past his face and drawing blood where splinters broke skin. The settling dust stung his eyes as he coughed, let his knees shake out their tremble in the time it took him to dust off his shoulder, and it was as he knelt down to retrieve the sword he’d inadvertently let go of that Geralt halted.

For there, right in front of him, in a bedding of wooden splinters and broken beams lay the Wolf, motionless, strewn hickory brown hair and the same striking scar upon his cheek – just that little bit of raised flesh, a tad more rosy than the rest of him – he’d first noticed by the riverside. He would have been lying to himself were Geralt to say he’d not thought over their encounter since then, but _this_ right here – standing right over his limp form, as down a street or two were men already calling for his blood – had most certainly not figured amidst any of the reunions he’d imagined. He counted his blessings, however, as they’d yet to be discovered, for if Geralt could be granted but one moment with him, just _ask_ him if he could help, beg him for just the name of the place he could find his salvation if need be –

In the same breath, he fell to his knees, an instinctive urge taking hold of him as, in his unsteady hands, he grabbed the white pelt around his shoulders and turned him around on his back with no resistance whatsoever, the wolf pliant and malleable under his touch. His head lolled from side to side, his features lax, still, as consciousness had yet to return to him, and while he knew it to be far from appropriate given the situation, all Geralt could think of was, in spite of all he’d heard here in Cintra, how achingly _human_ he looked, as he lay there, awareness coming back to him with a grunt after a moment. Their eyes met, bright blue on brilliant gold, and his breath stopped as the Witcher was certain he could see the barest hint of recognition in them, and call him selfish, perhaps, but Geralt ached for more, the second long understanding touching him far more profoundly than anything he’d had in a long while. His lips parted, words failing him for a second too long as he scrambled to tell him in the short seconds they were granted that it didn’t have to be like this, that Queen Calanthe was reasonable and they would surely talk things through.

“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one they call Jaskier.” He said, quietly, thought it preferable to grant him the decency of a name and address him with dignity than strip him of his humanity, see in him naught but a beast. Geralt knew the dehumanizing feeling all too well, it wasn’t pleasant.

For a moment, his desperation seems to have paid off, Jaskier’s eyes widened just enough for Geralt to _know_ with a relieving certainty that he remembered him from the riverbank, and he was sure that as Jaskier’s lips parted, ready to truly acknowledge him too in turn and utter his name into the space between them, that perhaps this misunderstanding could end without a need for violence. Already Geralt pulled back somewhat, had one hand extended and just in touching distance of the Wolf’s fingers, if he could just take hold, they could-

He was not entirely sure, for no sooner had their fingers brushed that Jaskier pulled, knocked Geralt off balance, and with his other hand, his knife swiped across his cheek, and the quick strike hurt far more than it ought to have. Whatever had brought them together only moments ago seemed to now be pulling them apart, the Witcher faced with a wrathful stranger instead of a chance encounter he wished he could tentatively, perhaps, call friend. He had a moment to ponder on how rage distorted the Wolf’s features, the hint of a gentle recognition now replaced by the ugly lines of festering anger and rage.

Geralt knew the feeling all too well, did not think he wished for it to consume Jaskier like it was him.

“Get out of my way!” He hissed at him as Geralt tried reaching out for him again, the steel of his knife such a cold and sharp impediment between them where Geralt only wished for them to talk. Another swipe and then another, a quick succession of moves that he effortlessly parried, yet it pained him to do so none the less.

“Wait!” He said, between two strikes, “Jaskier, wait, please!” He insisted with more vigour as, in a flash, he seized his wrist when the younger aimed for his side, just over his hip. “It’s me, Geralt, from the river, do you remember? I don’t want to fight you, I need your help!”

“Liar!” He barked, features distorted even further, and perhaps Geralt understood then, why people so easily compared him to the wolves he lived with, for there was nothing human in either the feral snarl upon his face right then nor the way his body crouched, beast-like and poised, ready to strike its prey. If Geralt had not met him before, he could almost believe the sordid stories of how humanity had been sucked out of him entirely.

Geralt had seen it, though, he’d seen the human beneath the wolf skin, he’d seen the humanity entrapped in sharp canines and behind the steel knife that had drawn blood from his face, clung to it still and wished for Jaskier to let it resurface a moment longer.

“You’re all the same! I don’t help _humans!”_ He cried, Geralt having to nearly bend in half to avoid his blade cutting into his cheek, for there was no reason for more blood to be spilled here tonight.

“Jaskier, _please,_ listen to me!” He tried to reason, grappled with his fur collar and dragged him in so close their breaths mingled, “I don’t mean you any harm, if you’d just-!”

Wrong move, for as Geralt’s fist tightened around the white fur, Jaskier ducked, pulled him down with him and threatening to make him lose his balance. With his other hand, he swiped up, the blade of his dagger burning as it slashed his cheek, and the sheer _bite_ of the sting surprised Geralt with how much it hurt – how much was the steel and how much was from the feeling of utter betrayal, he did not think he could say. It sent him back, however, releasing his hold on Jaksier’s pelt, and no sooner had he been set free that the wolf had already taken off down the street, Geralt only registering it when the echoes of chaos and cries and the sharp sound of steel upon steel rang in his ears.

It was an unpleasant sound, and coupled with the stench of blood and the acrid metallic taste it left in his mouth, Geralt could feel the hold he had on his nerves begin to slip. Did these people understand nothing? Did they truly believe that killing each other – spilling more blood for a cause they probably knew nothing of – would solve this conflict? How utterly _stupid_.

Geralt had had enough, more than enough even.

He felt it, the moment he began to let go of his control, could feel it acutely in his breast, as the curse feasted upon the anger – hot and red – that now thrummed through his veins. _Let it feast, then,_ he thought, for why not? Why could these people so readily give themselves over to anger and hatred and not him? He could feel it, how the curse twisted his body, how his canines grew sharp, bit into the soft flesh of his lips, how upon his back, shades of grey and white fur began to grow upon him like a second skin, the sharp dig of claws into the soft flesh of his hands was almost a welcomed pain when he felt it. _Let it feast upon him,_ he thought, let the people of Cintra truly see what it was this curse could do, let them see the hideous beast he was cursed to become.

With every measured step, Geralt could feel the skin of the monster consume him, just a short while longer and perhaps a white tail would follow, complete his transformation entirely as Geralt would willingly surrender this time, let the curse have him and feast upon the humanity he had so desperately clung to one last time, for his human instincts would be so easily snuffed out after that.

He snarled as he rounded a corner, the sound a strange amalgamation of something entirely foreign, yet if he listened closely, a hint of himself could unmistakably be heard somewhere beneath, fighting to be heard. It was inhuman, monstrous and ugly – nothing less than what he deserved, really – and with one sniff of the air was set on Jaskier’s trail once again, Geralt taking off after his prey.

“Out of my way!” He barely had time to warn the two guards before he was upon them, a beastly swipe knocking them over in his haste. Perhaps, were he not so consumed by anger, Geralt might have thought twice about a demonstration of such violence towards them. As things was, only the beast growling inside him mattered, only the need to stop further bloodshed pushed him forward.

He hoped he’d not inadvertently killed them, for while he so easily surrendered this time, while the instinct and call for blood would have been so easy to hand himself over to entirely, Geralt did not want to become a monster, did not want to lose every part of himself to this curse of his.

Restraint wasn’t easy, however, for as Geralt approached the main square, followed the tribal chanting of Cintrans of all ages, he could hear with clarity how easily they called for violence and blood, like they knew not what that did to a person. Their words sounded not like the men and women Geralt had come to know, they sounded like nothing but mindless beasts, prone to let their beastly cravings speak for them, and of how was it just that they could choose to do so while retaining their humanity, while Geralt was cursed to lose his and become a beast against his will? He clenched his fist in anger, snapped and snarled his way thought, let them see what it was they were bound to turn into were they to let themselves fall into such dark desires, and perhaps felt a slight satisfaction as they recoiled, whether from Geralt himself or the realization at what they’d almost surrendered themselves to, he could not tell.

He listened not, to their outrage as he pushed his way through, could not hear anything of the cries and chants, could not hear anything but the dance of steel sword and dagger mere feet ahead of him, and felt his very bones crack, the curse trying to shirt him further as it begged to feast upon his animalistic rage.

Geralt didn’t want this, he didn’t want to become a monster.

He didn’t want the Queen or the Wolf to become ones either.

“That’s enough!” He cried, meeting both their blades with his own, took advantage of their momentary surprise to let go of his weapon, used his unnatural strength to seize both their wrists. The bones felt oh so fragile in his hand, and somewhere, Geralt had to fight off a dark urge begging him to just _snap_ them both in half, watch them wail and feast upon their pain, drink in their terror and move in for the kill, show them all what he was really capable of.

He was better than that, however, had decided so mare moments ago, and though it took great pain to try and override the curse, thought it left him panting with exertion and sweat beading upon his forehead, Geralt pushed through, let his hands curl around both the Queen and Jaskier with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

“What do you think you’re doing, Witcher?” She snarled, the shadow of horror she tried so well to hide plainly evident upon her face as she took in his mutated appearance. “Ah, is that what your curse does to you, makes you think and act like nothing but an animal?”

With her free hand, she pushed harder, both their swords entangled in a battle of wills, the grating sound painful to his ears. Geralt could feel a part of him, dark and monstrous, ready to pounce at the slightest opening and crying out for blood, all too willing to rise to the bait, “Let me kill him, Witcher. Let me kill the wolf boy right here, right now. Let me protect my people, as it is what I must do. As it is what I _hired_ you to do: you are here to fend off woodland creatures. But the Wolf is mine!”

“You’ve done enough,” Geralt said, “Both of you.” He added, golden eyes flashing dangerously as he turned to the wolf – to Jaskier, if Geralt was more than the monster his curse was desperate to turn him into, then, he thought, let Jaskier have the decency of being more than the beast people called him, let him at least have a name. Somewhere, Geralt had dropped his sword, taken hold of his wrist in his clawed hand.

“What is he, your _pet?_ He’s a savage, a beast. Don’t tell me it’s now that you have come to care for him, Witcher.”

Care? Geralt wondered, no Geralt cared not, he couldn’t, Witchers didn’t, right?

But was this him speaking or the curse?

It was only when two twin cries of pain sounded around him and something warm coated his fingers that Geralt realized he’d let the curse speak for him, let his monstrosity dig into both their skin. Their blood, dark, crimson, beating with life still, ran down their wrists, soaked his skin and coated his fingers, the tang unmistakable as it reached his nose, itched the back of his throat pleasantly. Just a little more pressure and Geralt might quench his thirst, might –

_Fuck._

Fuck, this… _Thing._ This horrifying thing… Whatever it was, it had to _stop!_ Geralt needed it to stop before he lost himself to it completely, before he let it take hold of him and find himself at the centre of another Blaviken incident he would never be able to wipe himself clean of.

“I do not wish to hurt you, either of you!” He told her, for it was important they both understand that he had no side in this, “I have no side in this conflict you have.”

“You do, _mine._ I hired you to wipe the forest of monsters.” The Queen said, “I paid you, promised you more payment too. This creature is one of them, that you think of him as some lost pet is not my problem!”

“And I am not your errand boy!” Geralt snapped back, low, the threat clear, and damn did it feel good to let it out, to not have to bow to decorum for a moment. Though Queen Calanthe was far from the only one who needed some sense knocked into her, and in a flash, Geralt rounded on the Wolf, tried not to let it sting when he noted a hint of apprehension in his eye when Jaskier had been one of the rare encounters in his life since leaving Kaer Mohren that had never shown an ounce of fear towards him before now, “And you, drop your knife, or I’ll snap your wrist. Trust me, it’s the last thing I want.”

He cowered, slightly, before his features softened, resorting to the same tactic Geralt had pulled on him a mere couple of minutes ago, appealing to the bond they’d somehow forged that day at the river, “Geralt-“

“Don’t you dare utter my name here, I told you to drop your weapon.”

Obedient, Jaskier did, let go of his one means to defend himself merely because Geralt had asked it of him, and as he stripped himself of his knife, it was like an entire skin had shed off his back, his empty hand trembling in his hold. Uncertainty hung in the air, Jaskier’s apprehension and Queen Calanthe’s uncertainty permeating an ugly stench as they both watched the white fur on Geralt’s back grow longer, the beastly claws around their wrists grow sharper and the shape of his pupils turning him into something even the Witcher had no name for.

A silent horror descended upon them all, everybody from the Queen to her people frozen in terror as they witnessed the ugliness of his curse laid bare before them. Fuck, what was happening? Geralt had thought he’d fought it off, his anger had abated, so why didn’t it leave?

 _“Look,_ both of you!” He snapped, forced both the Queen and Jaskier to gaze upon the monstrous beast he was slowly becoming, “All of you, look!” He said, louder, golden eyes raking over the fearful crowd, _“This_ is what anger and hatred do to you! This is how ugly it looks, it twists you and turns you into something your are not, something you never wish to become. If you keep letting such emotions consume you, this is the fate that awaits you, it will fester inside of you, change you like it is me, until it kills me. You are all _more_ than that, I have to believe you are more than monsters incapable of even the slightest shred of humanity!”

“This nonsense curse of yours is getting boring, Geralt.” A hiss to his left, Queen Calanthe’s doubt dripping in her every word as she said so, “Why not let me cut your heads clean off then, hm? Why not put you out of your misery!”

The momentary flash in her eye was all the warning Geralt was granted, as, with her free hand, she lunged.

But Geralt was faster.

Instinct taking over, courtesy of his curse, Geralt met her blow with his shin, barely had a moment to register the bite of the blade in his skin as, already, he let her go to reach for her outstretched arm, gave it one sharp tug and brought his knee to her stomach. The Queen sputtered, the breath knocked out of her, the strength of his blow too much for her already overexerted body, and she was sent crumbling to the ground, unconscious. Geralt let her limp hand slip out of his hold before rounding on the Wolf. In his other hand, Jaskier had began to struggle, desperate to be set free after witnessing the Queen go down, and with nobody to stop the people around them from tearing him to pieces, Geralt thought it no wonder he desired to make a hasty retreat.

“Let me go!” He cried, terror-filled blue eyes still locked upon his arm, followed with apprehension the slightest of movements made by his clawed fingers. “Let me go, you-!”

Geralt did not let him finish, knew that if they both wished for a way out of here, he needed to act, and fast. With a tug, he hauled Jaskier in close again, leaned into him as he whispered in his eat, “Can you trust me?”

Jaskier sputtered, eyes wide, confusion evident, and how anyone could have ever taken him for anything _but_ human right then, Geralt knew not, for he knew not of any other creatures upon the Continent that could express such a depth of emotions upon their features. It was a strange thing indeed, how effortlessly he went from beast to man. “What?”

“Trust me, and I promise to get you out of here.” Geralt said, meant every word of it too, for he truly did not wish for further harm to befall him tonight. “I’ll take you back to the forest, this I swear, but you _have_ to do as I say.”

Jaskier went quiet, debated for a moment whether or not he could do so no doubt, and as the lines around his eyes softened, his anger rescinding, Geralt caught a glimpse of the human he’d encountered by the riverside again. He understood, of course, that asking Jaskier to trust him like this was no easy feat for the man, he understood, of course, that trust was hard to come by and oh so easily broken when handled without care, but if anger were to control any of them further here tonight, were the situation not abated, somewhat at least, Geralt knew he might not be able to hold his monstrous form at bay, might have no choice but to let it take control and watch, powerless, at is committed the unspeakable. He would truly be nothing more than the rumours people made up about him, then, would give reason to their lies and prove their distrust to be right – Geralt knew well the feeling, had grown weary of it – and the people of Cintra would no longer have a reason to hold back. They would tear him apart.

Geralt did not think he wished such a fate for either of them.

“Please,” He said again, one monstrous being to a humane beast, “Please, trust me. I’ll take you away.”

He saw Jaskier cast a weary glance over his shoulder, searched for the Queen no doubt, his instinct to hunt her down, to try, perchance, to lay one last blow before he retreated, still running strong in his veins, but the witnessing of Geralt’s curse seemed to have knocked the bravado out of him, for a time at least, as the Witcher felt sweet sweet relief course through his bones when Jaskier knelt, allowed himself to fall to the ground and feign unconsciousness, played dead and trusted Geralt completely for however long he needed him to uphold the act.

Geralt felt something tighten in his chest at the realization of it.

He was not spared a moment to linger upon it, however, for no sooner had Jaskier’s body hit the ground that the heavy silence reigning over the city broke, cries for the queen erupting around them. Geralt let them, let the cacophony fly over him as, with his eyes, he sought out King Eist, “Please, take her from me, for I must bid you all farewell. My search continues in the forest.”

The man did not need to be asked twice, rushed forward and all but pawed at Geralt’s arm to release him his wife, handled her with surprising delicacy after witnessing such potent rage from the Cintrans. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what is was he told him then, probably some reassurance that his wife would be fine, that he’d merely knocked her out, but Calanthe being made of stronger metal than that, Geralt was positive it would take more than a blow to take her down, even if it was from a Witcher.

The suffocating press of people around him dissipated as they mostly left him, crowded the King and his wife instead, desperate to make sure she was all right.

Geralt let him, used the momentum to hoist Jaskier’s body upon his shoulders and card his way through, the Cintrans around him backing away, no doubt in shock still.

How they got from there to the stables, Geralt knew not, for it must have passed in a blur, but Roach, ever attentive to his needs, showed herself to be well behaved as he saddled her, opposed not when he set Jaskier upon her back and he climbed up behind him, daring to sneak one arm behind his torso. The streets were mostly empty anyway, and if things were to go smoothly, Geralt thought it would take them just shy of an hour to make it to the heart of the forest, where he could let Jaskier go and then be free to continue his search for a cure.

Perhaps the wolf would even consider helping him, even, and Geralt tried not to think about how the thought was a pleasant one.

“Don’t you dare take another step!”

The open gates to the city just lay just ahead of him, but Geralt halted his mare at the distinctive sound of a _click_ in his back. His body stiffened, muscles going rigid and bones grinding together, already dreading a bullet snapping them in half and he knew, before even turning in his saddle, that the cold steel barrel of a rifle would stand between him and Milva. He considered digging his heels into Roach’s sides, knew she could take off at quite the speed, but the unexpectedness of it all might cause the woman to misfire, injure his horse or someone else instead, blood she neither needed nor wanted upon her hands.

Still, he needed to get out of here.

“Milva, please,” He said, turning to face her, at least, “I don’t want any trouble with you.”

“Shut up!” She cut him off, grip tighter around her weapon, finger on the trigger ready to let go at any moment – Geralt knew she was a sharp shooter, knew that whatever she desired to aim for, she would likely land her mark. “Not another word from you, Geralt! Do you even have the slightest clue as to what you’re doing?” She said, barely restrained hysteria lacing her voice.

“I do, trust me,” He said, with far more calm than he probably ought to have been feeling, one hand around Roach’s reigns, the other one coming to settle on Jaskier’s thigh where he felt him tense, apprehensive. Geralt rubbed the fabric there, begged him to feign unconsciousness just a while longer, _trust me, I won’t let her hurt you._

“Trust you? _Trust you!”_ She scoffed, “You’re asking a lot from me, Geralt of Rivia. You attack our Queen, protect a monster and decide to side with the forest and… What? you expect me to just let you pass, like it means nothing? Do you even have the _slightest_ idea of the terrible things that beast’s family did to us? No amount of _trust_ is going to bring those men back, Geralt!”

Chancing a look over his shoulder, Geralt could see her composure starting to chip away, the pain of her loss tangible, an understandable frustration expressed in her wavering composure. He knew of what she had been through – what the Cintrans, all of them, had been through – but like he’d told Queen Calanthe, he could not afford to take sides. “I know,” He said, “I understand your pain, but further bloodshed will not quell your unrest, believe me. Please, Milva, you need to let me through.” He tried to appease her again, one hand held up in a silent pledge that he would not harm her.

Around her, the other women from the forge had caught up, were begging Milva to just _put the gun down, please,_ and though Milva kept her eyes locked upon him, he knew, by the imperceptible twitch around her eye that she was listening. They were a strong unit, cared deeply for each other, Geralt held no doubt that they would manage to talk her out of it, and, confident, he nudged Roach into a walk, the open gates right ahead of them.

In the distance, a twin pair of howls could be heard, the wolves already waiting for them outside the castle grounds.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Milva’s voice rang in his back, the earlier upset set aside, only bitterness and anger left in it’s wake, “You think that this curse of yours makes you invincible, Geralt? Well, it doesn’t, it doesn’t work like that here!”

He was not sure what felt louder to his ears, the raising of her voice, the sharp _bang_ of her gun going off or the cries from the women surrounding her, but Geralt felt it acutely, when the bullet tore through his side, burning through his flesh and tearing his insides apart. He grunted, threatened to topple forward as his hand came to cover the wound, his other one gripped Jaskier’s forearm, hard. _Don’t move, please._

He guessed the sharp sound of the gun going off must have been what had set Roach off, for the next time Geralt opened his eyes, he could feel her galloping beneath him, and around him, the walls of the city had made way for the open grass of the land. Truth was, he paid not much attention to it, focused as he was on applying pressure to his side, awkwardly trying to put pressure on the wound in the hopes of it eventually going numb. It wasn’t easy however, what with his fingers going slick with blood, the hot red liquid dribbling down his side and in front of him, Jaskier had begun to struggle.

“We need to stop, you idiot!” He thought he could hear him say, thought it sounded funny, after a while, like half of it was shouted in his ear, the other a mere whisper in the faraway wind. Perhaps there was a growl there too, somewhere, Geralt could not say for sure, the flash of white at his side would just as easily have been a flashing memory of Ciri’s bright hair, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d not made it all up.

There was a whinny, somewhere, and then Geralt felt weightless, his every burden lifted, for one blissful moment, then something hard on his back and the burn in his side flared back to life – _fuck, he’d been shot, Milva had shot him, hadn’t she?_ Were he in better shape, perhaps, Geralt would have brought his hand down to be sure, would have run his fingers along the injury and assured himself that it was nothing fatal, like Vesemir had taught him – _if the bullet passes through you, that’s a good thing, lad_ – Geralt felt nothing, however, nothing outside of the blinding pain.

Beside him, there was a growl, too loud to be anything natural, and no doubt drawn by the sharp smell of blood, something sharp prodded at his side and he tensed, wincing. _Could he not be left alone for five fucking minutes? He’d just been shot, for fuck’s sake!_

“Leave him!” He heard, somewhere, over him, “Oi, I said let him go! He’s mine.”

The sharpness retracted, and around him came the sharp sound of dirt and gravel shifting as someone moved in time with his uneven breathing. Geralt knew he ought to have prepared himself, that he could not let his guard down with a ravenous wolf prowling around him, just waiting for the right moment to pounce and chew on hi until nothing but his bones remained. He did not think he minded, right then, content as he was to just lay there, too drained to do anything but let the blood keep flowing.

“Why?”

It took Geralt a moment to realise that Jaskier was, in fact, talking to him, and rather reluctantly, then, did he open his eyes. The wold felt wrong, from down here, everything spinning, nothing where it ought to have been, and he could feel a headache coming on soon. He couldn’t see very far aside from a dance of dark shadows and a furry white paw beside him.

“Why… What?” He muttered, throat sore and voice gravelly. _Where the fuck was Jaskier?_

“Why did you stop me from _killing her?_ Tell me, while you still draw breath!” He snarled, fury bristling behind his words, and as something shifted behind his head, Geralt could swear he felt the tremors of rage running down Jaskier’s entire body. The wolf – man, really, for he was no beast- trembled with barely supressed anger, like he believed his cause to be righteous and could not understand the Witcher’s reason behind stopping him, the intensity of his ire almost too violent a thing to handle for someone so easily breakable. Geralt thought it to be such an odd combination, wondered how someone like Jaskier had managed to survive put here when the Witcher was certain that, with the slightest twist, he could snap his wrist in half. “Tell me, Geralt of Rivia – oh yes, I know who you are, the whispers of the trees travel faster than you’d think – tell me why you halted my hand while you still draw breath!”

“They…” Geralt managed to articulate around a wince, _Gods_ did his throat feel dry, “They would have torn you apart. The people of Cintra, they don’t ever intend such violence, but it’s easy to give in to urges like that. I didn’t want…”

He must have trailed off, mumbled something else, though he was not sure what, for as Geralt peeled his eyes open again, stared right back into a par of striking blue ones – even in the dead of the night, there was no mistaking them – and he could see it all so plainly painted upon Jaskier’s face: the anger, the upset, the gratitude at saving his life he would not bring himself to voice, Geralt saw it all, this conflict the Wolf must have been feeling, and it was absolutely enthralling to witness, for it had been a long time ago, now, that Geralt had crossed such a person.

Jaskier had yet to draw his dagger, break his skin with the tip of his blade and make him bleed, Geralt knew, somewhere, that he had not the heart to.

Jaskier snorted, “What, you think I’m afraid of that? Of drying? Ha, you know too little, Geralt! I would gladly lay down my life if it meant that the Queen and her humans would stay out of my forest forever! And if you think I’m afraid of some big scary Witcher, you’re mistaken!” He said with vehemence, and Geralt could not doubt him for a second, knew that were it to come to that, Jaskier would die for the forest.

And was that not such a human quality to possess, to so willingly lay down one’s life in the name of something one loved? Geralt found himself frozen again, much like he’d been drawn to a halt when first finding Jaskier’s body in the debris, of how human he’d looked then, too, and he considered telling him so, then: _Despite what people say about you, despite what you may think of yourself, you’re human too, just as much as I am_. For how could he be anything but, really? That blazing anger, the profound upset Geralt could feel rolling off his skin, the pain in his voice as he talked of his home ravaged by the greed of other, it was a pain only given to humans to feel, the Witcher knew well. It was strange, how he felt far more kinship with him then, in the few moments they’d shared, that any other human settlement that had, oft begrudgingly, accepted to offer him food and shelter for a short while.

Jaskier looked at him not like he was some monster, recoiled not from touching him if the hand around his collar, bruised knuckles brushing the skin of his collar was anything to go by. Angry at him, he may have been, but the Wolf treated him like an equal, like Geralt was more than the beast his curse was so eager to turn him into, like he was more than the grotesque Witcher men and women so quickly recoiled from in terror.

Jaskier beheld none of that towards him, and at the realization, Geralt felt something soft give away in his chest.

“I know,” He said.

_I know you would lay down your life._

_I know what it feels like, to not be truly seen._

“You know,” He nodded, “Then you _know_ I should also kill you, for saving her!”

“Seem a little ungrateful,” Geralt replied, would probably have shrugged were his hands still not around his waist, clutching his bloodied shirt. “Don’t you think?”

“And, what… You think you’re going to appease me with that?” Jaskier said, clearly thrown off by Geralt’s unwillingness to rise to the bait. “Lady Calanthe is evil, everybody in the forest knows that. And nobody – not even some big scary Witcher with his scary swords – is going to stop me from killing her!”

Geralt thought it regrettable, that for someone who had such a liveliness to him, who seemed to know not what it was like to be living on borrowed time, to know their life was doomed to end before it was over as something _other_ took hold of them and became them and stole the days they ought to have, Jaskier seemed to be all too willing to throw his life away for a cause that would be far from over, even were he to sacrifice himself for it. Talk of death made him look ugly, twisted the features upon his face and gave him a beastly form, as Jaskier prowled and snarled like the wolf he was said to be, and for a moment, Geralt thought them to perhaps not be so dissimilar in their fates, two men doomed to become monsters if they could not find it in themselves to stop it first.

Geralt knew what it was like, to so readily hand himself over, knew the risks, and had grown to learn that, no matter the anger he might have been feeling, it was not worth letting it consume him were he to become _that_. “Don’t… Don’t kill her. You should choose life.” He said, not without effort, as he could feel his body going limp, his strength leaving him the longer his wound went untreated. It felt important, however, that Geralt manage to get to him, to make Jaskier understand that needless death could not possibly pave the way for anything good, that much like his own curse, it would naught but fester inside of him, a craving that would eventually turn him into something he was not.

The thought of such a fate befalling Jaskier upset him.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not listening to you!” 

The press of a cold blade against his throat snapped his eyes open once again and Geralt looked up, breath caught in his throat – blue eyes, slim shoulders shaking with exertion, anger, upset and something _else_ warring in the shifting expressions upon his face in a mesmerizing tableau, and now that Geralt was given a moment to appraise the Wolf – Jaskier – the Witcher felt himself at a loss for words, for never did he think, then, that he’d seen anything quite so beautiful.

He’d blame it on the blood loss later, no doubt, but Geralt was far too exhausted to think twice about it, and so he told him so, articulated what he’d not felt in a long time – too long, really, if the loud heartbeat in his chest, thrumming with a hunger for life and more – was anything to go by.

_“You’re beautiful.”_

It was a quiet confession, words breathed into the small space between them, hanging in the air for a moment longer. His voice might have been weak, might not have been able to speak as loudly as he’d have liked, but Geralt’s heart – his own, not the beast, not the curse, _his_ \- mustered the rest, meant every morpheme with his whole heart.

Jaskier’s evident shock as he pulled back – probably had not ever had such a thing uttered to him – wide eyes and lips sputtering, at a loss for words, were rather amusing to watch, an oddly expressive pantomime for someone who so readily claimed to be removed from humanity. Geralt had a moment to think of how he might like to see it again before he closed his eyes, as he felt a warmth upon his shoulder, Jaskier’s hand softening somewhat a nice touch for him to linger upon before passing out.

His heart felt lighter, as he slipped into unconsciousness, and as his lips might have curled just slightly in what might have been a faint smile, Geralt knew he was safe, that it was all right, for him to trust the wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Low-key might write a Geraskier Princess Mononoke AU in full one day, if the idea for a story longer than this one-shot ever comes up.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: "Please...", "Stop, please" and "No more"  
> Day 15: Posession

Anger, red and hot, burned its way through his body.

By Melitele, Geralt was _furious._

For what cause, exactly, he could not for the life of him remember, but it must have been dear to his heart for him to so readily succumb to such blinding rage. Somewhere, he could feel that the reason for such ire was just _there, just_ out of arm’s reach, but it was like it was wrapped in a thick cloud of crimson smoke, and his hands could naught but tentatively brush the surface of it as the mist coiled around him like a snake. It clung to his skin, felt oppressive upon his shoulders, stung his golden eyes, scratched terribly as it clawed its way down his throat and made his flesh ache. Geralt itched for nothing more than to tear his skin off in his rage.

Above all else, however, rang the echo of a single command.

_Stop him._

The voice did not sound familiar to his ears, there was no face Geralt could associate with it, but as the words reached him, as their meaning sunk in, he felt compelled to obey, to see their will done. It was obviously important for the voice, for Geralt to do this for them, it would mean a lot to it, were he to stop them, and so, righteous fury guiding his body, the Witcher hit, and hit, and hit again. He felt it, when something broke beneath his fist with a satisfactory crunch, softness giving away to something warm. It coated his fingers as he kept hitting, seeped down to his knuckles, and were Geralt more lucid, he might have stopped to take stock of what it was, but in his current haze, stopping was not an option. The voice wished for him to _stop them,_ and so Geralt would.

So Geralt hit, and hit, and hit once more, though the last punch felt not quite as strong as the previous had been as the red haze blinding his eyes began to recede somewhat, and along with it, the voice too, began to fade away into nothingness, in its place blood pounding in his ears and something else. It seemed a little distant, at first, like it was desperately trying to reach him through some far away dream, yet there was a hint of familiarity to it too, and for a moment, Geralt was almost tempted to latch onto it. If anything else, it would be better than being left here alone.

 _Don’t listen. It’s trying to poison your mind, you mustn’t listen!_ The commanding voice ordered him again with more insistence, sent a renewed spark of anger in his body at the thought of being so easily deceived, and, pliant to its will, Geralt drew his arm back and hit again. There was a satisfactory crunch, this time, followed by a wet sound, like the someone beneath him was trying very hard to cough as they poorly attempted to wriggle out from under him. Geralt knew he could not afford to let them go, it was imperative that he stop them – so he hit again, and this time, their head hit against the ground with a dull thud.

It was as Geralt’s fingers grappled with their collar, the bloody material slipping loosely from his grip, that he took notice of the dark blue hue of the fabric, and how it felt in his hands – fine, _expensive,_ like it had cost more than a pretty penny. It felt important that he linger on that detail, for some reason, as his golden eyes roamed over the intricate features lacing the doublet like the little flowers lining the front, like how it was tainted with so much _red_.

Why? Why was it tinted red?

Why did the dainty little collar look so familiar?

Geralt breathed harder, was absolutely certain that, somewhere, he _knew_ why the blue doublet was not foreign to his eyes, that these details he’d halted on were _important,_ meaningful, called to a distant part of him he could feel screaming out at him, would have reached him too were it not the thick red haze clogging his senses.

 _Stop him!_ The voice in his head commanded again with virulence, an urgency underlying the order, like it needed Geralt to act _now,_ like it had dawned upon it that the Witcher was breaking free of its hold. _Stop him, you must stop him!_ It repeated, frantic, and a sudden burst of urgency overcame him, Geralt watching with trepidation as his own body moved without his consent, watched, horrified, as it hit the person beneath him, felt skin hit skin in a strike he could not remember ordering his limbs to make.

There was less force behind his punch this time, however, like he _knew_ he ought not to have done so, like he knew, somewhere deep within him, that it was wrong.

“Geralt!” A voice called, but it rang different this time, there was not a trace to be found of the previous assurance, there was no command or control belying the tone, only the tremors of fear and the acrid smell of terror and a faint dash of chamomile blending together into something unpleasant. Yet he latched onto it, latched onto the way it called his name, latched on to the faint sound of a voice he was certain he _knew,_ Geralt was sure of it.

“Geralt, stop! No more, _please!”_ They coughed, and it sounded wet, like their voice was hoarse, like they were choking, clawing for breath. “This isn’t you Geralt!”

They were calling him by his name, asked and pleaded with everything their heart could muster, the desperation in their voice felt like they _knew_ him, like they were hurt that he would do such a thing to them, but the voice had told him to _stop them,_ surely it could not have been wrong?

Somewhere, Geralt was aware of the fact that they weren’t ordering him to do anything, there was no command – cold and callous, immune to the heartbreak of the fallout like the poisonous voice hissing vile sweetness in his ear – in their pleas. He grappled for it, wished to hear more of the voice, liked it far better than the anger he could not understand in his breast, the rage he could not control with his fists.

His hands trembled, just slightly, as he forced himself to ignore the call to _hit_ and _hurt,_ Geralt didn’t want to do either of those things, Geralt just wanted it all to _stop_. The red haze lifted some more, at his newfound resolve, the Witcher blinking away a little more of the spell he’d no doubt been hit with, and he could now see with a little more clarity the dark grey of stone bricks – a wall, the ruins of what must have once been a castle, now nothing but debris and relics of a past laid to rest, and if he thought about it with a little more insistence, pushed himself just that little bit further, Geralt was certain he could _almost_ remember why he was here. If he could just reach out his hand a little more, pick apart his memory for the reason –

His hands were wrapped around something, he saw as he looked down, something beige and purple, a hint of blue at the edges. Against his torn knuckles brushed something oddly soft, the silk of an expensive yale coloured collar, with embroideries, fancy cuts and patterns lacing the edges, patterns that looked familiar to him, despite now being tainted crimson. _Come on, Geralt, think!_ He berated himself as he let his eyes roam over the fabric again, for this was important, he could feel it deep in his bones as his hands tightened around it. They shook, no longer with anger but with anguish at having so easily forgotten. It was important, somehow, something in him was screaming at him to get his act together and _remember!_

“Geralt, please, I’m begging you! Please, stop! This isn’t you!”

There was someone beneath him, he could feel it in how they gasped for breath, in how their chest seize under Geralt’s weight, he could feel them choking – could feel _his_ hand choking _them_. As the red mist continued to lift, he could see that they had blue eyes – human eyes – yet, unlike what he was used to, they beheld not the terror those people usually harboured towards him. Dare he say it, it felt like they almost did not _want_ to be afraid of him. But who in their right mind would have reason to trust him so, that the Witcher hurting them would cause them this much anguish?

The red haze lifted at last with that thought, Geralt blinking and wiping away the remnants of his trance with an unsteady hand, before he looked down once more, to a very familiar figure – _Jaskier._

Jaskier who was coughing and who could barely breathe through his broken and bloody nose, who had a ring of deep purple bruises blossoming on the fragile skin of his face like a ring of viola flowers blossoming in spring, who had tear tracks running down his dirty cheeks.

Jaskier who was looking at him with terror-clouded eyes when he was the only human who never had before.

His heart lurched, stopped, felt like it had been stabbed – all three at once. Jaskier was the _last_ person Geralt had ever have wished to hurt. Who he _had_ hurt, badly, for it was his blood – still warm, sticky, and so very _red_ Geralt was sure his hands would never be clean again, felt ill at the mere sight of them – that now coated his skin, tainted it, a shameful crimson stain he would forever carry around with him, a reminder of sins he would have to atone for.

“J-Jaskier?” Geralt knew he had no right to brokenly whisper such a name, let alone dare to hope speak it ever again, but it escaped him, as he pulled himself back in a jolt, unsure if he was afraid of what he might do or what the bard might do. He brought his hands – unsteady, shaking, wracked with tremors of guilt – to his chest, closer to his own monstrosity, wished not for them to be anywhere near Jaskier lest he hurt him more. He resolutely paid no attention to the tremor in his voice either, it was probably a fitting way for Jaskier’s name to pass his lips for the last time, for after this, he doubted he’d be allowed to say it ever again. Jaskier would probably never want to see him after what he’d done.

Beneath him, Jaskier coughed twisted on his side and retched up far too much blood, soiling the ruined old grey slabs crimson as he struggled to breathe. It stained his lips red, ran down his neck in a thin rivulet and discoloured his collar – there was so much blood, _too much,_ a macabre tableau of Geralt’s violent transgression. He ached to help him, to reach out and steady his quivering back with a steady hand, flinched away from the bard as if he’d been burned and cradled his bloody hands to his chest instead, fearing he might do far worse to Jaskier were he to dare take a step closer.

They still trembled, shook with acrid guilt and bitter remorse. What the fuck had he done?

“Jaskier?” He asked again after a beat, no louder than before, leaned forward just slightly for his hands were restless, could not stop moving, Geralt burning with the need to do something, _anything_ to help. He had to stop himself mid-attempt, however, stabbed straight through the heart when Jaskier abruptly flinched away from him.

He stopped dead, then, as he saw the bard’s eyes trained not upon his person, but on his unsteady hands – his hands covered, still, in his blood – and the Witcher could still remember with a sickening clarity the feel of skin breaking and bruising beneath the grip of his wrist, of his harsh touch squeezing around his neck, his thumb digging into his collar bone with painful precision, could still recall the feeling of soft flesh bending so easily in his grasp. The heavy weight of such memories made him feel sick with guilt, his hands still unsteady as the relics of his sins clung to him with fierce determination. Bloody violence still dripped with nauseating ease, from his abused knuckles where Jaskier’s blood had not yet had time to dry and flake away like a faded memory, and had Geralt the stomach to touch them, were his fingers not quivering, he had no doubt that the blood would still be warm.

The mere thought of doing so to check was sickening.

“Jaskier!” He said again, worry he did not bother to attempt to hide this time in his voice when the bard still did not respond, wished so desperately that he could take a step forward and ease his turmoil, yet knew he could not.

“Please don’t move, Geralt. Please. Just… Give me a minute.” His lips trembled, and he coughed again, tore at his ruined collar with unsteady fingers like he was still clawing for breath, he dared not even looking at him. Geralt knew he ought to have expected it, yet it still sent a sharp stab of pain jolting through his chest, to know that he was the sole cause of Jaskier’s obvious distress. White hot guilt sunk her claws into the soft and tender flesh of his heart as the Witcher looked on, feeling utterly powerless, his frustration at not being able to do anything sending tremors down the length of his arms all the way into his _(blood-soaked)_ hands, where it broke his skin, seeped into his very blood, incessantly chanting _You did this! You did this! You did this!_

 _“Fuck,”_ He croaked, voice hoarse and throat clogged up, his chest heaving, and suddenly, the world seemed to cave in on itself, got so small that all that really mattered to Geralt right then was a desperate need for Jaskier to know he had not meant it, he hadn’t meant to hurt him like this, that _never_ would he do such a thing to him intentionally. That Geralt was so fucking sorry it was his hands that had harmed him so, that it had been he – his friend, who supposedly _cared_ for him – who had wounded him so and caused him such anguish. “Fuck, Jaskier,” He said, voice raw and – he hoped, at least – apologetic, his words shook, as unsteady as his hands he knew not what to do with, remorse heavy in his every word. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, you have to believe me, I didn’t mean-“

“Geralt.”

“I know that there is no excuse for what I did, but-“

_“Geralt.”_

“Only know that I did not mean it, not truly, I’m sorry. Jaskier, I promise, I’ll-“

 _“Geralt!”_ His name from the bard’s lips once again cut the Witcher short in his misplaced grovelling, his hand hovering over his sleeve but not yet daring to touch made his chest feel heavy with gratefulness that the human somehow still had it in him to not see him like a monster and recoil in fear, never to reach out for him again. Jaskier’s hand didn’t shake, where it was, a hair’s breadth away from him, was far more assured than Geralt’s entire body currently felt. “Geralt stop. That wasn’t you.”

Jaskier oft had these complicated turns of phrases that Geralt had yet to understand, for he held little affection for flowery language and grandstanding metaphors where Jaskier loved talking, a poet at heart with boundless imagination and imagery sprouting from his writings, yet even this sounded too far-fetched to the Witcher’s ears. 

“I’m pretty certain that it was _my_ hand around _your_ neck just then, Jaskier.” That very same hand that had yet to stop shaking with acrid guilt, that very same hand Geralt was not so sure would ever _stop_ it’s shaking, trembling with the weight of what he had so callously done. The Witcher flexed it, perhaps in the vain hope of flicking the remorse away in a simple gesture, and it did little else but make him remember the phantom grasp of his harsh touch around Jaksier’s neck, damaging and bruising the skin beneath it every second he refused to lift it off him. It made Geralt think of how easily he could have killed him so effortlessly, had he perchance not come back to his senses just in time.

“I’m really sorry, Jaskier. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to hurt you like that, I swear.” He said, eyes trained on the discoloration around the bard’s neck, of what his hands had done with far too much confidence when they now had the audacity to shake with regret. Geralt didn’t _get_ to regret and feel sorry for himself, he did not have the right to when he’d not stopped himself in time, when he’d nearly killed-

“Geralt, that wasn’t you, it was the mage.” Jaskier interrupted his thoughts, one hand still reaching out for him, but understood that Geralt had no desire to be touched, was kind enough to show what he meant without actually acting on it. “He put you under his spell, I _know_ you’d never do that to me.”

How he could say such things with so much conviction, when he sat there with bruises and blood coating his skin that were entirely Geralt’s fault, the Witcher knew not, nor did he understand why Jaskier’s hands weren’t trembling – with fear or with anger, or both, he cared not which – as he perhaps contemplated seeking ways to take his revenge on him for beating him so badly. It would have been the least he deserved, perhaps Jaskier’s hands might even rid themselves of the itch of retribution, to cleanse his skin of wrongs done against him, were Geralt to allow him such a thing. At least, he thought, not without a hint of cynicism, it might help the Witcher take his mind off the unsettling realization that the mage had obviously used his body to do with as he pleased while Geralt had been completely unable to stop him.

He did not particularly wish to open _that_ can of worms just yet.

Regardless of how much Geralt’s regret might have been making his body shake, it was too late now, the damage had been done. This was what had happened, what he both had and had not done.

His hands still trembled, Geralt’s stomach turning when he looked down to see them still covered in blood. There was so much of it, drying and cracking if it had not yet seeped into his skin, tainting him forever, an ugly stain he would never manage to rid himself of.

“Jaskier, I’m-“ He tried to articulate around the lump in his throat, couldn’t find the right words.

“I know,” He said, gently, “You don’t have to say anything.” His voice was kind and soothing where it should have been harsh and angry, Jaskier should have been unleashing upon him his betrayal and his hurt, a verbal tirade that would tear open his skin and make him bleed in agony. Instead, he inched closer, left a berth between them still as if he were approaching a cornered wild animal – and was that not what he was? Was Geralt not a feral White Wolf, who snapped and snarled like a beast, whose claws tore apart even those who sought not to harm him?

Geralt wished for nothing more than to draw back, curl into himself and hide away forever, left alone to wallow in his misery for the rest of his days. Instead, he cornered himself into one of the walls of the ruins, and there was nowhere for him to run but into Jaskier if he wished to escape, and Geralt did not wish to touch him again, lest he harm him further. He tried to back himself up as much as he could, wished, perhaps, that the walls would grant him mercy and swallow him whole and make him part of them, take him to a place where his monstrous person would never have to be close to Jaskier ever again, the little flower ought not to have been so trusting of the beast that had torn it apart just moments ago.

“Stay away, Jaskier.” He wished he’d hissed it, a poisonous dart in the bard’s skin, one final blow for him to mark him with that would prove to be too much, that would make Jaskier see sense and leave him. Instead it came out like a pathetic plea, Geralt begging him to keep his distances, to stay away from him. It pained him, to say such a thing to the bard, for he wished he could indulge in Jaskier’s touch, knew he could never allow himself such a luxury after what his hands had done to him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I trust you, Geralt.”

 _The idiot!_ Did he understand nothing? Geralt was not worthy of such a fragile thing as _trust,_ not after tearing it apart with his hands.

“Yeah, and I still hurt you.”

“That wasn’t you,” Jaskier said, hard, like he believed it so completely, even as he looked at him all bruised and his nose still bleeding freely. Unabashed trust _– in him -_ still glistened in his eyes, and Geralt felt his own sting with unshed tears at the realization because _fuck,_ it felt so utterly _wrong_. Geralt had hurt him, his now-unsteady hands (which had been so _sure_ back then, in that horrible trance, as he hit and hit and _hit)_ had caused this, he deserved nothing less than harsh words (and he knew, from many bad encounters in pubs and taverns, that Jaskier mastered them with practiced ease, a skill he’d been honing since his days as a student in Oxenfurt) and a good punch to break his skin, maybe even a kick to the ribs for good measure, not _this._ Not the soft breeze of Jaskier’s unwavering faith in his good heart, a forgiveness that felt far too gentle against hardened Witcher self, not after what he’d done.

“Still, you should not be near me.” He argued, looked anywhere but his badly bruised face, for Geralt knew that, were he to look at the macabre tableau he’d paitned with his fists and the brushstroke of fury, even if it had not been his own, he knew that he would not be able to withstand any more of the ache in his chest, bitter remorse would gnaw at his bones and threaten to devour him whole. “You should not forgive me so easily, Jaskier, that’s not how this works.”

“Guilt suits you ill, Geralt, do you know that?” The bard said instead, words light, yet landed heavily upon the Witcher’s heart, “It dulls your eyes, makes them look less golden, and you don’t deserve to have such a thing line your pretty face, let alone fester in your soul like an invasive weed.”

Geralt still harboured doubt at such a claim, perhaps wished himself worthy of it, somewhere, yet he knew he’d done nothing to earn nice words. He tried to draw back, again, when Jaskier’s hands hovered over his trembling ones, radiating a warmth and security he longed to have earned, to be worthy of, one day. They did not shake, there were no lingering tremors wracking his fingers, no uncertainty coursing through his blood, his hands were steady and calm, everything Geralt was not right now. He did not touch him, however, looked up at him first, as he silently sought his permission before he dared touch him.

Geralt felt something heavy lodge itself in his throat at such a simple yet heartfelt gesture, and moved not an inch, when skin met skin, merely let his hands shake. Only after a couple of seconds had passed, in which neither said anything, content with the sound of silence and their quiet companionship, did he squeeze his fingers ever so lightly. Jaskier’s hand was warm, trust bleeding out of his palm and into Geralt’s hands with careless abandon, forgiveness in his touch for a sin he did not believe it was the Witcher’s place to atone for. Geralt’s poor heart beat louder in his breast as he heard what the bard said in this silent language of his, one of gentle touching he was not quite used to yet.

It was, dare he say it, almost _nice_.

Gentle touches were quite the rarity, in the life of a Witcher, for such things were far too feeble for his brutish hands to hold. Yet, as he let Jaskier handle him, as he let him take those same hands that had hurt him so only moments beforehand in his own, Geralt could do little else but stare in wonder at the trust this human – fragile, still so obviously hurt and so easily _breakable_ – decided to offer him so completely. So he allowed Jaskier to guide their hands, he let him tear a piece off the bottom of his ruined shirt and protested not when he tied it around Geralt’s damaged knuckles. His breath caught in his throat again, when, after, the bard ran his thumb over them, and looked down, pained, when he noticed that Geralt’s hands had yet to cease their trembling.

The Witcher’s heart positively _ached_ at the honest concern that was directed his way, felt so utterly undeserving of it, felt so grateful for the gentle absolution Jaskier chose to gift him of his own accord. He pulled back, after a beat, a lingering warmth remaining in Geralt’s skin, and when he looked back up at him, to Jaskier’s open arms, he did not stop himself from leaning in and resting his head upon his shoulder, let the bard’s steady hands rub reassuring circles on his back while his own trembled at his sides, utterly useless.

“Damn mage,” He was grumbling into his ear, tickles the skin there with far more levity than it had a right to, “Making you do things like that, he ought to be ashamed of himself. It’s not right.”

Geralt swallowed at that, hard, his heart fit to burst as Jaskier’s concerned outrage for his well-being washed over him. That he chose to express it, chose to tell him so before tending to his own injuries, that he chose to say it to his face when he was still badly bruised and still bleeding freely from his nose, that his sole concern, in all of this, was to show Geralt a little tenderness as from his lips he spat barbed words at someone who had used him, it was an odd kind of protection, to be sure, but the Witcher felt _safe,_ cared for, was humbly appreciative of it.

Perhaps it was why he allowed Jaskier’s hands to gently take hold of his own again, a soft gesture he did not actively try to substitute himself from this time. It was nice, a small comfort when his thumb began the same soothing motion it had previously given his back with affection, Jaskier not saying anything as Geralt let him map out the shape of his hands with his fingers.

Through it all, Jaskier’s hands hadn’t shaken, still wanted to touch him.

“The world isn’t fair, Jaskier.” He sighed, a murmur for nobody but them to hear, “The sooner you accept it, the easier it gets.”

“I’m not.”

Geralt looked back to him, then, tore his gaze from their intertwined hands to his face, for the acerbic tone was not one he was used to, coming from the bard who sang love ballads and tales of his heroics.

“I’m not going to accept it, Geralt,” He repeated, firmly, dared him to disagree, “I’m not going to accept it, because it’s not right. You shouldn’t be made to do things like that, you shouldn’t be made to feel guilty over something that’s not your fault, and you shouldn’t think yourself unworthy of wanting better.”

Somewhere in his tirade, their fingers had laced together, and neither one of them was particularly eager to pull away just yet. Jaskier gave another gentle squeeze when a persistent tremor ran down the length of Geralt’s hand – which still trembled, tough not quite as badly as before, the bitter remorse having abated somewhat. He rubbed his thumb in circles again, touch feather-light and warm and _nice,_ and Geralt thought he could almost feel his guilt recede just a little.

“I swear it, Geralt, if we cross paths with that damned mage ever again, I’ll be hitting him over the head with my lute for what he did to you.”

Geralt could not help but snort at that, and the little bubble of laughter that followed brought a nice levity to their situation. While the Witcher would no doubt have usually shrugged Jaskier’s valiant protection off, declared himself unworthy of it or that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, tonight, he thought differently, tonight, he let himself have it. It came as a welcomed balm, and maybe he liked it, just a little bit.

“Can your revenge wait for a while longer?” He asked him, unwilling to move right away, a sudden weariness in his limbs.

Jaksier looked up to him, surprise evident in his features, Geralt’s words having suddenly snuffed out away his spark of indignation. For a moment, it almost seemed like he was about to argue, to tell the Witcher that he _ought_ to be offended, that he had the right to want revenge for what had been done to him, for Jaskier never was one to pass up an opportunity to defend his honour, but after a second, seemed to prioritize Geralt’s comfort over his own for tonight, as his shoulders slumped and he said, “Sure, we can stay here, for however long you want, Geralt.”

His voice had gone soft again, he noticed, and it felt nice to Geralt’s ears, after the thumping of too much blood. It was a welcomed change.

He did not protest, then, when Jaskier put one arm over his shoulders and pulled Geralt to him, did not say anything as he used his other hand to try and cover his own – he only managed about half, for Geralt’s hands were far larger than his own. Through it all, Geralt did not pull away.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” He murmured into his hair – _for staying, for not being angry, for forgiving me, for being kind_ , there was far too much for him to be grateful for, and Geralt trusted Jaskier would understand without him having to tell him so – and, chest far lighter now, he closed his eyes, the last relics of his guilt finally left him as Jaksier’s forgiveness worked its way into his exhausted limbs.

They stayed like that, in companionable silence, and it was only when Geralt felt the alluring call of rest lull him to sleep that he noticed that his hands must have, at some point, stopped trembling.


End file.
